Fade Away
by vpen1729
Summary: "You know, for some reason, every great con man in the world needs to master the game of pool at some point in his life." Even the great Neal Caffrey had to come from somewhere. The story of how a dingy pool hall and an old grifter put a young boy on the path to becoming one of the greatest cons in the world. Warning: Spoilers for late season 3/all of season 4.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning- Spoilers for late season 3 & early season 4. If you don't know who Ellen Parker is, don't read.**

**A/N- In "Diminishing Returns", Neal says that he grew up in witness protection under the name Danny Brooks, and in "Stealing Home", he mentions that he learned to play pool at the age of nine because there was a pool hall on the way home from school. We also know from "Forging Bonds" that Neal was accomplished at street cons and forgeries _before_ he met Mozzie. This is my take on how he might have learned some of that stuff.**

**Disclaimer- I don't own White collar.**

* * *

Gathering his courage, the young boy eased open the door and ducked inside. The interior of the pool hall was dark, smoky, and cool, in direct contrast to the blistering sunlight outside.

Danny felt like he'd entered a whole new world. Players, predominantly men, lounged around tables or against the bar. They smoked and drank, both things that Danny hated at home, but something about how they held themselves was different. Sure, there was the occasional soul hunched over their drink like it was all they could see in the world, just like Mom on her bad days, but the others-

The others had grace.

Right then and there, Danny decided that he would learn that grace, that confidence, so that he could be the one who looked like they fit no matter where they were.

"Hey, kid." It took Danny a minute to realize that he was being addressed. The speaker was an older man, silver-haired but still imposing. He stood alone at one of the pool tables, cue in hand.

"Does your momma know you're here?" the man asked condescendingly.

Danny just shrugged, not wanting to get into it.

"You should go on home," the man said, not terribly unkindly. "This isn't a place for kids. The arcade's next door."

"I know," Danny said simply. Ignoring the man's instructions, he stayed put. He sensed that the man was evaluating him, sizing him up.

After a moment, the man nodded and gestured for Danny to come closer. "Grab a stool. How old are you, kid?"

"My name isn't kid. It's Danny. And I'm nine."

"Well, Danny-who's-nine, what brings you to this den of thieves?"

"Thieves?" Sure enough, when Danny's hand shot to his back pocket, it was empty. The eight dollars he'd saved from his lunch money was gone. However, rather than upset, he found himself delighted. "Teach me how to do that!"

The man looked at him like he was crazy. "Why does a nine-year-old boy want to learn how to pick a pocket?"

"Why not?" Danny challenged. "It's a neat trick."

The man let out a booming laugh. "I like you, kid, but I'm not dumb enough to teach some squirt that I don't even know how to pick pockets and then just let him loose."

Danny sagged on his stool, disheartened. The man must have noticed, because he continued, "But, 'cause I do like you, I'll teach you an even more valuable skill."

"What?"

He smirked. "The great game of pool."

Danny looked at the table critically. "What if I can't reach from the ground?"

"Then maybe you're too young to be here." The words hung in the air, heavy and stifling as the haze of cigar smoke.

Danny felt his back straightening to grant him a few extra inches, his chin rising defiantly as he gave the man a bright smile.

"Don't you worry about that," he said, trying to imitate the man's confident ease. "I'm old for my age."

The silver-haired man laughed, breaking off to cough deeply. "You're a card, kid. The name's Cal. Grab a cue."

Danny did, the small gesture of acceptance filling his heart with so much happiness that he thought his chest might burst.

* * *

"Keep your eye on her. Back and forth, round and round. She's running circles, 'round you, Danny!"

A moment more of blurred movement and the cards and Cal's hands, scarred but still graceful, came to a halt. He was an old pro at playing Find the Lady. Danny's eyes narrowed as he inspected the backs of the cards. He chewed on a nail for a moment before coming to a decision.

"You cheated."

The older man raised an eyebrow. "_I_ cheated? Prove it."

Danny glared at him and in one smooth movement, flipped all the cards so that they faced up. To no one's surprise, there was a pronounced absence of queens.

"You cheated," Danny repeated, his bright blue eyes still slits. "I want my ten bucks back."

Cal grinned wickedly. "No can do, kid. You didn't find the queen."

Danny's mouth opened as if he was going to argue, but he stopped himself. For the merest instant, his companion thought he detected a glimmer of mischief. But the boy's face settled so thoroughly into an expression of disgust that he wondered if he'd imagined it. "I don't know why I even talk to you," he said angrily, standing to push past his friend and mentor.

Cal might have been old, but he wasn't stupid and he wasn't slow. His hand snaked out, lightening fast, to catch Danny's fingers as they reached for his wallet. "Nice try, kid," he said, shoving him away affectionately, "But you got to work on subtlety."

Danny grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Thanks a bunch, old man. I'll get right on it. Listen, I gotta go. Ellen's probably expecting me for dinner, like, an hour ago."

Cal rolled his eyes and twirled his pool cue expertly. "Get out of here, kid. And hands off the wallet. You want to pull that, pull it on some sap. Not me."

"Sure thing," Danny said innocently. "Saps only. I promise." The boy grabbed his long-since discarded cue, dropping it onto the rack. He darted through the sparse crowd, receiving a quick word or a slap on the back from most of the regulars before scampering out into the early St. Louis evening.

Cal shook his head slowly and ran one hand through his silver hair. Even after a few months, it still tickled him that a kid like Danny would be interested in learning from a tired old grifter and his friends.

He really did have skill, though. For a little kid, his sleight of hand was almost true magic. His pool game was still a little rough, but he was improving rapidly. Perhaps his most impressive skill, though, was his conning. Danny knew just how to play people. He was especially good at using his looks and age to allay suspicion. Most of the time he emanated a vibe of good-natured mischief, although Cal knew that when he looked his most innocent, he was the most dangerous of all…

Cal cursed and slapped his pocket, but he already knew that his wallet was gone. The cheeky little brat must have grabbed it when Cal had been preoccupied with only one of his hands.

To the older man's surprise, while the wallet definitely wasn't there, something else was. He fumbled with it for a moment before pulling out a smooth paper rectangle.

He held it up to light for a moment. Grudgingly, a smile tugged at one side of his mouth. It was a playing card. A queen.

The missing Lady.

* * *

Danny ran down the sun-kissed sidewalks, ducking around pedestrians, spinning past bike messengers, his prize clutched in his hand. He had every intention of returning it to Cal the next day. (Minus his winnings. He _had_ found the Lady, after all.)

Still, it was a heady feeling to know that he'd done it, he'd tricked the teacher, he'd beaten the best.

The rush faded slightly as his course brought him nearer and nearer to the apartment. His watch said that it was already seven.

Considering that Ellen had told him quite clearly that he was to be home for dinner at half-past five, he was _so_ dead.

His pattering feet brought him to a stop outside a low, unassuming brick building. Danny stowed the wallet carefully in his backpack and moved forward, passing the dull metal numbers beside the door, the list of tenants with the names peeling off. The elevator was still broken, so he clattered up three flights of stairs and burst through into a dimly lit hallway.

Normally, it would have been completely deserted. _Ideally_, it would have been completely deserted. However, due to some odd reason, such as a young boy showing up over an hour later than he had promised, it was not.

A woman stood outside apartment 306, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Danny froze as she glared at him.

"Get inside," she said.

Danny obeyed immediately. He knew better than to test her patience when she was that angry. He slipped into the apartment, dumping his backpack as she followed and shut the door.

"I'm really sorry," he began, hoping that he could do a quick damage control and escape to his room.

Ellen raised one hand, stopping him. Although she was a short woman, she still struck quite an intimidating figure, her hair pulled back into its customary tight French braid, her cheeks red with anger.

Danny carefully placed himself in front of his backpack, as though shielding its contraband contents.

"Do you have any idea how worried I've been?" Ellen asked dangerously. "You said, you _promised_ that you would be home by 5:30. Do you know what time it is, Danny?"

Danny pretended to check his watch and be surprised by what he saw there. "Ellen, I'm sorry, I didn't know it was so late…"

Ellen's dark eyes flashed. "Don't give me that sh- that stuff, Danny. I know that you knew exactly what time it was. Don't even think about lying to me. Where were you?"

Squirming under her fierce glare, Danny admitted, "I was hanging out with a friend." It might not be the whole truth, but it was the truth.

Ellen, having once been a police officer and still possessing the same keen instinct that made her such a good one, picked up on the difference. "A friend? Really. Then what exactly are you hiding in your bag?"

The nine-year-old wanted to groan. Of course Ellen's sharp eyes had picked up on his too-casual positioning. "What do you mean?" he asked innocently. "What's wrong with my bag?"

The older woman didn't even bother arguing, just held out one hand. Danny reluctantly handed her the backpack. She carefully opened it, digging through the collection of books, papers, and other assorted school supplies.

Apparently no one was listening to Danny's frantic prayers, because she quickly discovered the leather wallet.

"Danny, what's this?" she asked, her voice sharp enough to cut teak. "Where did you get this?"

He wanted so desperately to lie, but he knew better. "I took it," he whispered.

"You mean you stole it?" Ellen said pointedly.

"No!" Danny said quickly, his voice high and panicked. "It was just a joke! I was going to return it tomorrow, I swear!"

Ellen opened the billfold and examined the cards inside. "Do you know this man?" she asked, examining a scratched driver's license.

Danny nodded miserably, but she hardly seemed to notice, concentrating on plastic card in her hand.

"Fake," she murmured after a moment.

In his surprise, Danny forgot his fear and apprehension. "What do you mean? How can you tell?"

Ellen dug in her pocket for a minute, extracting her own wallet. "Look at this. This is my license. Can you see the little seal there? Now look at his."

Danny studied the side-by-side cards for a moment. "The colors are off."

"Exactly," Ellen said, having apparently forgotten the argument just like the boy next to her. "Whoever made it was pretty good, but they got the base mixed wrong. If the ratio is off, it won't look quite right."

"That's not his name either," Danny said, pointing.

Unfortunately for him, the slight reminder seemed to jog Ellen's memory and she scowled. "And how exactly do you know his name?"

Danny flushed. "He told me that his name was Cal. He's always over at that one pool hall."

"Show me," Ellen commanded, gripping his arm.

* * *

Cal leaned against the bar, sipping scotch and shuffling an old deck of cards. The bartender, Max, had graciously agreed to open him a tab even without his card because he was, after all, there every single day.

Unusually for a Friday night, it wasn't particularly crowded. The pool hall was large enough and seedy enough that besides the regulars like Cal, there was usually a steady stream of strangers. Or, from another point of view, a steady stream of marks.

But for tonight, only two of the tables were in use and Cal sat alone at the bar nursing his drink while Max was cleaning behind the bar and wiping glasses.

The old grifter glanced up as the door opened. To his surprise, a middle-aged woman, short but fit looking, stepped inside with a very abashed looking Danny.

The woman examined something in her hand and glanced once around the nearly-deserted room before zeroing in on Cal. She half-turned, making sure that Danny was following before making her way briskly over to the bar. "Excuse me," she said in a very no-nonsense tone of voice.

Cal carefully set his drink down, turning to face her with his most charming smile. "Can I help you, Ma'am?"

"Yes," the woman replied, her manner not changing a whit. "Danny?" she said, turning to face the boy.

Cal could practically see the kid's awkwardness hovering over his head. He shook his head once, dark curls bouncing, and held out his hand. In it was a wallet that Cal recognized as his own. "I, um, took this from you. And- and I'm really, _really_ sorry about it."

His voice was repentant enough and earnest enough that Cal didn't believe a single word. The kid was just too damn good of a con to be that sincere.

The woman, who Cal guessed was probably his mom, seemed to be having the same thoughts. "And you won't do it again, will you, Danny?"

The frown was real this time. "No. I won't."

Cal smiled slightly and took his wallet. "Don't worry about it, kid."

Danny's mom pursed her lips slightly but nodded. "Danny, go wait by the door. And if you move an inch, you're grounded for a month."

The kid nodded seriously and obeyed, pausing once he was out of the woman's field of vision to throw Cal a cheeky wink.

Cal acknowledged it with a barely perceptible nod and waved Max over.

"A drink for the lady, please, Max," he said gallantly.

"No," the woman said firmly. "I'm good."

Cal caught Max's eye and shook his head slightly before turning back to Danny's mom. "Your son is quite the troublemaker, isn't he?" he commented lightly.

To his surprise, the woman flushed. "He isn't my son. He… You could say I'm a friend of the family."

Cal accepted that easily enough. "Well, ma'am, he's lucky to have someone like you looking out for him. He's a good kid, if a bit of a rascal. I'm not pressing charges, if that's what you're worried about."

She scoffed. "I never thought you would. Somehow I doubt that the kind of man with a fake ID would go to the police for anything."

Cal's heart sank. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Miss…?"

"Call me Ellen. And don't give me that bullshit. I was a cop for eight years. I know how to recognize a fake ID."

"I suppose you would," Cal said calmly. "But you haven't gone to the police. So what do you want?"

"I want you to stay away from him," Ellen said bluntly, her eyes sharp as daggers. "He's an impressionable boy, and the last thing he needs is someone teaching him how to pick pockets."

"For the record," Cal retorted, "He just showed up one day. And I did _not_ teach him to pick pockets. He just seems to pick things up."

Ellen went red with anger but rather than starting to yell, she just sank onto one of the bar stools. "He really does, doesn't he?" she said tiredly. "God knows, I do my best, but he's so headstrong. His mother is no help either. I love him like he was my own, but I just don't know what to do with him some days."

"Where's his dad?" Cal asked curiously. Danny had never volunteered any personal details, preferring to hear stories about Cal's old cons (though he edited them somewhat).

Ellen just shrugged. "As good as dead."

Cal understood. He'd seen a lot of those situations over the years. "If it helps any, I'll tell Danny to stop coming around. He'd probably listen, but he wouldn't be happy about it."

Ellen glanced over her shoulder, checking on the slight form slouched miserably by the door, far out of earshot. "Honestly," she admitted, "As much as I don't like it, it's probably best if you don't. At least when he's here, I know that he's not wandering into somewhere dangerous. I pride myself on being a pretty good judge of character, and I don't think you'll let anything happen to him."

"None of us would," Cal said gently. "Danny makes friends easily. No one would ever want to see him get hurt."

Ellen looked him in the eyes. "That's good. Because I will be holding you personally responsible for anything that happens to him when he's here. But if he gets hurt _or_ gets in trouble, then I will personally hunt you down and shove one of those pool cues up your ass. Got it?"

Cal had an uncanny survival instinct. He nodded once and kept his mouth shut. He had absolutely no doubt that Ellen was completely sincere about her threat.

Ellen smiled and rose from the stool. "Good. It was nice to meet you, Mr…?"

"Calder Morais. Everyone calls me Cal." As he gave up his name, he wondered vaguely if she would bother to look up his record.

Ellen held out a hand for him to shake, but instead he caught it and kissed it. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ellen."

She rolled her eyes. "Same to you, Mr. Morais." She gently pulled from his grip and crossed to Danny. The boy followed like a leaf in her wake as she swept out the door.

Slowly, Cal opened his wallet. To his surprise, not a dollar was missing. He thought for a moment, then pulled out ten dollars and set it aside. After all, he _had_ found the Lady.

* * *

**Please review.**


	2. Chapter 2

__**A/N- Thank you so much to those who reviewed! And hey, does anyone know why Ellen doesn't have a tab under characters?**

* * *

_Clink._

The white ball tapped delicately into the red and came to a graceful stop.

Cal smiled with satisfaction and stepped back. "Your turn, kid. I hope you can pull one of your fancy tricks, 'cause you got no shot."

Danny frowned, flipping his hair out of his eyes. In the four years since Cal had met him, he'd grown tall enough that he was practically at the same height as his mentor. There was still the occasional joke about how he'd needed a stool to reach the table before, but the jabs came less and less often as the teen demonstrated that, despite his youth, he could match both wit and cues with those almost four times his age.

"All's fair in love and war, is that it, old man?" he said teasingly as he evaluated the table. Cal had been right. The white ball was trapped behind the red, with virtually no way to get it safely out.

But Danny refused to give up that easily. He rested one leg on the side of the table, leaning awkwardly over the felt to get the right angle. He sighted along the cue, confirming that he would hit it in just the right point, and drew back.

_Clink._

Cal, though a genius himself with the cue, had no idea how Danny had managed it, but the white ball spun out, arcing around the red and sinking its target. He shook his head in disbelief.

"That's it, kid. I'm done." He coughed harshly, his old lungs wheezing in protest.

Danny tilted his head in confusion. "Done? There are still balls on the table. Are you alright, Cal?"

The old grifter rolled his eyes. "I'm obsolete, Danny. I don't have anything left to teach you."

Danny shrugged. "There's always something to learn."

Cal's short laugh launched him into a brand-new coughing fit, but he persevered. "Don't tell your Ellen that I said anything, but you could go far, kid. Hell, you're thirteen and you're the best con I've ever met."

The boy beamed. "Thanks, Cal. That means a lot. But I don't plan on being a full-time grifter."

"What then?" Cal asked, amused. "A politician?"

It was Danny's turn to roll his eyes. "As if. No, I'm going to be just like my dad."

Surprise set Cal coughing _again_, but he recovered quickly. "What'd he do?" he asked, wondering if Danny knew what Ellen had vaguely confessed all those years ago. The kind of father she'd reference was not someone that Cal could see Danny wanting to follow in the footsteps of.

Danny grinned mischievously. "He was a cop."

Cal raised an eyebrow. "You want to be a cop? Really?"

Danny nodded. "My dad was a hero. I've wanted to be like him since I was really little."

"Then why are you hanging out with a bunch of ex-cons like us?" Cal asked, genuinely interested.

"I don't know," Danny said honestly. "I guess I never saw a reason not to. I love this stuff, and, anyways, just because I know it doesn't mean I'll use it. I mean, I got Ellen to teach me to shoot once and it's not like I'm going to go hurt someone."

"You know how to shoot a gun?" Cal said disbelievingly. Danny was the least violent kid he'd ever met.

The boy seemed to read his mind. "I didn't like it much, but it's good to know how to use one in case you ever have to. Ellen said I was pretty good."

"Stay away from that stuff," Cal advised. "Whatever you end up doing. It's not you, Danny."

The kid smiled at him. "Don't worry about that. Hey, that reminds me, Ellen sent you something." He dug in his backpack for a moment, extracting a small package heavily wrapped in plastic wrap. He tossed it to his friend.

"Banana bread. Ellen decided to try her hand at baking the other day. Just a warning, it's pretty bad. I think Ellen's just trying to shove it off to anyone she can, but I thought it was kind of nice that she remembered you."

Cal laughed. "She's a good woman. Give her my compliments."

"But you haven't even tried it. What if you think it's awful?"

"If I thought it was awful, I'd still tell you to give her my compliments because I'd be afraid that woman might come after me otherwise."

Danny laughed. "I'll see you tomorrow, Cal." He stood, paid for Cal's drink (a gesture that the man heartily appreciated), and left.

Max leaned across the bar to grab the cash. "He's a good kid. Smart, too."

"Yeah," Cal said, each breath dragged from screaming lungs. "Let's just hope he's smart enough to stay out of the game."

Max snorted. "Him? Not a chance- Hey, Cal. You okay?"

Cal tried to draw air but couldn't. "I… No…" he choked out, slipping from his stool.

The room seemed darker than ever before. And blurry, too. Cal saw a flash of Max's face, saw him holding a phone and talking rapidly, but his heart was beating too loudly in his ears for him to make out what he was saying.

Then it was all gone. He fell into the darkness.

* * *

Danny didn't like Monday nights much. On Mondays, Ellen had to work late, so it was just Danny and his mom.

Or, more accurately, it was _supposed_ to be Danny and his mom. In reality, Danny often ended up home alone.

That wasn't necessarily a problem. Danny knew how to cook and could fend for himself pretty well. By the age of thirteen, he was pretty much independent. Even when Ellen or his mom was home, he tended to shut himself in his bedroom and either read or sketch.

But that wasn't the point.

Danny attended a pretty good school. He wasn't entirely sure how Ellen paid the tuition, but he knew better to ask. Ellen never lied outright to him, but he knew enough to tell when she was misleading or redirecting a conversation.

So he kept his mouth shut about tuition and fees and went to the good school. And he saw his peers; many of who could not compete with him academically but who all came from well-off families. And he listened silently when they talked about their families, and their dads, and their moms.

_Their_ moms managed to be home not only on occasional Mondays, but every night and most afternoons, too.

_Their_ moms packed peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches for their lunches (Danny packed his own lunch every day since he was seven because Ellen was too busy getting ready for work in the mornings, and besides, he was the only one who knew how to make a proper _croque-monsieur_).

_Their_ moms always remembered their names on the first try.

Danny pulled out his key, unlocking the apartment's front door. He wasn't surprised to find it empty. He dropped his backpack and tossed his jacket onto the sagging old couch.

When he checked in the fridge, he was pleased to see that Ellen must have picked up groceries. He decided on Italian. Pasta with sliced chicken breast and sun-dried tomatoes.

He'd just started the water boiling when he heard someone fumbling with the doorknob.

"Mom?" he called curiously. "Mom, is that you?"

He edged around the partial wall that separated the kitchen from the living room/entryway. The door opened slowly and his mom walked in.

Ellen always told Danny that he looked like his father, and he had to agree because he certainly didn't look like his mother.

Mrs. Brooks was a tall woman with dirty blond hair in contrast to her son's dark curls. Her brown eyes had deep shadows underneath.

When she noticed her son, she smiled wanly and said, "Neal, dear. You're home already."

"Mom, it's Danny," he said, trying not to let it hurt him. His mom had kept calling him Neal for as long as he could remember. He'd asked Ellen about it once, but she'd just said that when he was born his father had wanted to name him Neal and his mother had wanted Daniel, so maybe she was thinking of that.

_That doesn't make sense_, he'd wanted to protest_. If she chose my name, shouldn't she at least remember it?_

But he'd just shrugged and accepted the explanation.

"Are you hungry, Mom?" he asked her. "I'm making pasta."

"That's nice," she said absently.

Danny wanted to scream, but he didn't.

The pasta didn't require much attention until the water was boiling, so Danny snagged a sketchbook and a pencil while he waited. He drew randomly. Ellen. A running dog. A pretty girl in his class. (He idly considered giving it to her. If she liked it enough, maybe she would agree to go on a date with him.)

After a while, he realized that he was sketching Cal the way he'd looked, all those years ago, when Ellen had confronted him. Leaning forward, absently playing with a deck of battered playing cards, drink by his hand and cue leaning on the wall behind him.

To Danny's delight, it was one of the best sketches he'd done in ages. He was actually quite disappointed when he had to stop for a while to finish cooking the pasta and eat.

The meal was silent. Danny didn't bother to try and start conversation like he usually did. Afterwards, he did the dishes (because if he didn't, they wouldn't get done and there would be nothing to eat off of).

By the time he was done, his mom had vanished into her room.

Danny knew that he should be used to it, but he still felt a pang of sadness. His friends got to see their mothers every night. The one night _his_ was home, she didn't even want to talk to him.

He finished the sketch of Cal and went to bed, trying to believe that tomorrow would be better.

* * *

The next day, Danny almost thought his wish had come true. His mom had actually been home, and she'd wished him a good day at school (using his correct name).

At school itself, he found that he'd aced a test from a few days earlier even though he'd forgotten to study. During free period, the librarian recommended a new book on art history that he thought was amazing.

After the final bell he packed his books into his backpack, careful to remember the sketch for Cal.

The pool hall was right on his way home from school- one of the main reasons he'd even gone in years ago. The walk was pleasant after being cooped up in a hot building all day.

It wasn't until he'd ducked through the familiar door that he realized something was wrong. The atmosphere was as dark and smoky as ever, but it no longer felt mysterious and exciting. Instead, it was almost oppressive.

To his surprise, Danny realized that every single table was empty, something he'd never seen before. Al of the regulars, along with a couple of others that Danny had never seen before were all standing around the bar. Max, who Danny liked because he often gave him free soda, was silently passing out drinks. Once or twice Danny was sure he saw him wave away cash or a credit card.

No one had noticed the teen, so he made his way over to the emptiest part of the bar. He waved to catch Max's attention.

The bartender turned at the movement and seemed to notice him for the first time. He suddenly looked extremely pale. "Oh god, Danny…"

Danny looked at him with some concern. "Are you okay, Max? What's going on? Where's Cal?" he added, realizing for the first time that the old grifter was not among the small crowd.

Max looked pained. "Danny… Cal, he's…"

Silence was spreading through the crowd like ripples through a still pond as they recognized the young man.

The stares were making Danny nervous. "What about Cal? Max, what's going on?"

"Danny," Max said gently, "Cal's dead. He died last night."

The boy frowned slightly and shook his head. "He can't be. He just can't."

"It's true," one of the regulars put in.

"Shut up," Max told the man. "Look, Danny, Cal's been sick for a long time. Lung cancer. He had a respiratory attack last night and couldn't breathe. They did everything they could at the hospital, but they didn't make it. I'm so sorry, kid. I know you two were close."

Danny didn't know what to say. He felt his face falling instinctually into a blank mask.

_Just like Cal taught you_, a voice whispered in his head. _Wouldn't he be so proud of you right now, a thirteen year old kid who's such a good con that no one would know his best friend, his mentor, is dead, dead, dead…_

"I- I have to go," he managed. He thought that someone said something, but he couldn't tell because he was already gone.

* * *

Ellen didn't live with the Brooks'. Her own apartment was close, though, only a few blocks away. That had been one of her requirements when they'd been searching for somewhere to live in St. Louis.

Still, she was in the Brooks' apartment often enough that it didn't really make a difference whether she lived there or not. In years past, she'd babysat Danny, but by now he was old enough that even she had to admit it was more for companionship than because he needed to be taken care of.

She knew Danny probably better than anyone else, having raised if after his real mother all but shut down from the loss of her husband. She knew Danny's schedule almost by heart. He tended to stay most of the afternoon at the pool hall and do his homework in the evenings.

So when she entered the apartment and saw the shards of glass, her immediate thought was a burglar. She wished for her service pistol, but that part of her life was long gone and she hadn't bothered to keep a gun since Danny grew old enough to open cabinets and play with things in them. She hadn't wanted him to shoot himself on accident.

Not wanting to be completely unarmed, she grabbed an umbrella from near the door. As she edged around the mess on the floor, she realized that someone had broken the Tiffany lamp that normally rested on the table. Ellen frowned, inexplicably upset. That lamp had been one of the few things that Danny's mother had insisted on bringing from their own house.

She was distracted by a sound from the back of the apartment, near the bedrooms. She listened carefully and realized that someone was crying. Throwing caution to the wind, she called, "Danny? Danny, are you okay?"

There was no immediate answer, but after a moment, Danny said, "I'm fine. I'm sorry about the lamp."

Ellen stopped outside the room and tapped on the door. "Can I come in?"

There was a pause and a mutter, which Ellen took for consent. She opened the door carefully and entered.

Neal's room had always been uncannily tidy for a teenager's bedroom. The walls were covered in sketches and posters of famous artworks, including a few reproductions Danny had sketched when his class had visited an art museum.

Now, the teen was sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing at his face. Ellen sat next to him, placing one hand comfortingly on his back. "What's wrong?" she asked softly.

Danny bit his lip, trying to force the words out, but he couldn't find his voice.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Ellen said soothingly. She didn't often use pet names for Danny, but hse could tell that he was really upset.

Danny muttered something too low for her to hear.

"What?" she asked.

"It's Cal. You remember. I went to the pool hall today, like always, and they said he's dead. But he can't be, Ellen, he can't."

Ellen didn't know what to say, so she just wrapped one hand around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. "I'm so sorry, Danny," she whispered as she felt him start to cry again.

* * *

**Kudos to anyone who catches all the minor references to other episodes!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N- The minor references were the pool shot ("Stealing Home") and the Tiffany lamp (in "Payback", Peter says that Keller's cell had a Tiffany lamp and Neal says "So did my mom"). And in "Scott Free" he implies that he was surrounded by wealthier kids than he was ( Good catch Quartic Moose, I almost forgot that one!). Actually, double kudos to Quartic Moose for catching the croque-monsieur. I just put it in because it seemed a bit more Caffrey-esque than PB&J, but I looked it up and that's what El packed for him and Moz in "Neighborhood Watch".**

**Thanks to all reviewers!**

* * *

Cal's funeral took place a week later. As with most old grifters, it was a simple affair. The service had only a small crowd of mourners, but there were a surprising number of suspiciously subtle onlookers at the edges. Afterwards, shadows drifted forward to pay their respects one at a time, vanishing before anyone could get a proper look.

Danny didn't attend. When Ellen had suggested it, he'd flatly turned down the suggestion. Neither did he return to the pool hall as usual after school. In fact, it was almost a month after Cal's death when the bartender, Max, looked up to see a smaller shadow than usual lounging in the doorway.

With a sad smile, Max fished out a clean glass, filling it with ice and some soda. He slid it down the bar so that they boy couldn't not see it.

Sure enough, a thin hand soon took the glass. Danny sipped his soda, his bright blue eyes taking in the room.

"It feels different, doesn't it?" Max said quietly, following his gaze.

Danny shrugged. "I guess. It shouldn't, but it does."

"That's the way of things," Max said philosophically. "An absence is sometimes more noticeable than a presence."

Danny chuckled quietly. "It's funny, when you think about it. I did a sketch of him. I was going to give it to him that day."

"Can I see it?" Max asked curiously.

The teen shook his head. "I don't have it with me, but I could bring it around sometime."

"I'd like to see it," the bartender said.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

"He taught me a lot," Danny said eventually.

Max raised an eyebrow. "And how much of it did Ms. Ellen approve of?" he asked skeptically. Ellen had become a minor legend to the regulars, simply for the fact that Cal had been all but afraid of her.

Danny grinned, really grinned, for the first time in a month. "I'm not about to show her and find out."

"You tell her that if she ever comes in, her drinks are on the house," Max said. "Just 'cause she's the only person in all of St. Louis who can say that Calder Morais was afraid of her."

Danny laughed. "I'll pass it on. See ya around, Max."

"See ya, kid," Max said, adding once he was gone, "And for Cal's sake, I hope you don't ever get into the game. He knew, didn't he. Once you were in, you'd be too damn good to ever get out."

* * *

The next day, a package arrived. Inside was a sketch of an old man, tired but proud, his eyes glittering and his mouth in a half-smile. The boy himself didn't return, and Max knew better than to think he ever would.

Max had the sketch framed and put it up on the wall next to Cal's old table. At the bottom of the frame, he'd paid a man to carve two simple sentences.

_Old conmen never die; Their smiles just fade away._

Years passed, and Danny didn't come back. Neither did 'Ms. Ellen' take up the offer of a free drink.

The sketch still hung on the wall. An odd tradition emerged. Perhaps inspired by the motto, perhaps by the memory of a proud old grifter, other cons began to sign the wall. Of course, being what they were, the signatures were hidden behind a rack of cues, invisible to anyone who didn't know they were there.

* * *

It was almost five and a half years later. Max was wiping down the bar when the door opened. He didn't bother looking up.

"Sorry, folks, I'm about to close up." When there was no answer and no sound of the door opening or closing, Max finally looked up.

A vaguely familiar woman was standing by the door, playing with graying hair woven into a tight French braid.

"You're the same bartender from a few years ago, aren't you?" she asked.

Max nodded curtly, brow furrowing as he tried to figure out where he knew her from.

As he struggled with his fading memory, the woman wandered away from the bar and approached Cal's portrait. She studied it for a moment and laughed bitterly. "He really has a gift, doesn't he?"

Suddenly, it clicked for Max. Maybe because the last time he'd seen her, Cal had still been alive, sitting in exactly the same pose that Danny had captured. "Ms. Ellen!" he said in delight. "I remember that I owe you a drink on the house. Grab a stool."

Ellen looked confused for a moment, then her face was sad. "That's right. Danny told me that, oh, years ago."

Max grinned and handed her a drink. "And how is Danny? He hasn't been round since just after the funeral."

Ellen took a deep drink. "He's gone."

"Gone?" Max repeated stupidly.

"Gone," Ellen affirmed, taking another drink. "He ran away a couple of months ago. On his eighteenth birthday, of all things, so it's perfectly legal."

"Why would he run away?" Max asked, shocked by the news. Of all the kids he knew, _Danny_ had run away?

"Because I told him that his entire life was a lie," Ellen said bitterly. "I had to. I couldn't keep lying. I'd never seen him so angry."

Max decided not to try and puzzle out her words. It probably was none of his business. "And you haven't heard anything since?"

"No," she said flatly, staring at her drink. "I've been waiting, hoping he'll calm down and come home but…"

"Danny's smart and he can look after himself," Max said reassuringly. "He'll come back when he's ready."

Ellen looked down, her face drawn and tired. Max was willing to bet that she hadn't had a good night's sleep since the boy had disappeared.

"I can't wait any longer," she said, not meeting Max's eyes. "It's not safe for me to stay here. I don't want to leave, but I don't have a choice."

Max didn't say a word. There was nothing to say.

Ellen was still staring down at her glass, running one finger along the brim. "I came here because this place was so important to Danny. _He_ was important to Danny. I was hoping that I could leave a package for him, in case he ever comes back." She turned pleading eyes on Max.

He smiled. "I'd be glad to keep something for him. It'd really be something to see the kid again. Although I guess he isn't a kid anymore."

"Sometimes I wonder if he ever was," Ellen mumbled, almost to herself. "Maybe now he'll get the chance to be." She shook her head slightly and withdrew a small package from her purse.

Max took it, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. Ellen squeezed back before pulling away and leaving the building.

Max held the package for a moment before placing on a high shelf where it would be safe for however many months or years it could take for Danny Brooks to return and claim it.

Then he poured himself a drink and sat at the bar. He toasted the portrait of Cal and took a long swig.

"I hope you taught him well," he told the grifter's ghost. "He'll really need it now."

* * *

Days passed, one at a time. The legend spread. The list of signatures grew. And Max watched, waiting for a kid who had disappeared off the face of the earth.

Each year that passed, the pool hall's reputation grew. The criminal underground seemed to have declared Max's small establishment a sanctuary. The bartender hoped Danny would hear the rumors, but at the same time wished that he'd stayed out of the game as Cal had wanted.

* * *

It was another five years later. Max was in his fifties now, getting older. By now, all the old regulars had either died or moved on, leaving only their fading signatures. Max felt oddly lonely as he watched the door open to admit a young couple.

The young man seemed slightly reluctant, hanging back until his girlfriend tugged impatiently on his hand. The way that he followed her lead thoughtlessly told Max everything.

The young man, a handsome kid by all accounts, was completely in love with the dark-haired girl who had him by the hand.

It was sweet, Max thought as he watched him catch her around the waist while she laughed. She twisted in his grip, removing his hat (a fedora, Max recognized), and kissed him on the mouth.

When she pulled back, the young man smiled brilliantly. Max had to listen hard to catch their conversation of the background murmuring and clinking.

"You know," he was saying, "I can think of a couple of places that might be nicer to visit than here. Our hotel room, for example."

His girlfriend rolled her eyes and pushed him away gently. "You can't get out of it that easily, Neal. Come on, just show me around. I've heard so much about this place."

The young man, Neal, raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really, Kate? Because as far as I know, all you know about this place is that we were walking down the street and I pointed it out and said I knew it."

Kate smirked at him. "Compared to what else you've told me about when you lived here, that _is_ kind of a lot."

Neal shook his head in affectionate exasperation. "Fine. Quick tour, and then we go, okay? You have no idea how weird it is to be back here."

Max leaned forward, interested. He didn't have perfect recall or anything, but he thought he would have remembered if this sharply dressed young man had been here before.

"Why is it weird for you?" Kate asked, smiling.

Neal didn't smile back. Instead, he pointed her towards the portrait of Cal. "Do you recognize the style?" he asked.

Kate peered at it intently. "No, I don't think so. Whose is it?"

"Danny Brooks."

Max's jaw almost fell right off. Hardly anyone remembered that any more. How did this Neal know it?

Kate seemed similarly nonplussed. "Who?"

Neal laughed. "Exactly," he said enigmatically, moving away.

"What's that supposed to mean, Neal?" Kate demanded, catching his sleeve.

Although she only meant to bring him to a gentle stop, her unexpected tug had a couple of unforeseen results. Neal was pulled ever so slightly off-balance, causing him to stagger slightly and knock into the cue rack hiding the list of signatures.

"Oops- Oh, I'm so sorry, Neal," Kate apologized, moving to straighten his suit.

But Neal was already crouching, his attention caught by the fading names. "Kate, look at this. They're cons- all of them. Look. That's Russell Newhouse. Remember him? From the heist in Chicago?"

"Neal, shh!" Kate hissed, looking around. "Someone could hear you."

Neal shot her a look. "Kate, even back in the old days you didn't have to worry about that. This place is a real den of thieves. In a good way, of course, and speaking as a thief myself," he added.

Now Max was doubly interested. He ducked out from behind the bar and came up behind the couple. "Bit of a legend, that," he said, grinning slightly when they jumped.

Neal recovered first. "I can imagine," he said, glancing at the names. "Some of them are pretty famous, in certain circles of course."

"Of course," Kate repeated solemnly, her blue eyes dancing.

Neal reached over and took her hand. "Can anyone add on?" he asked Max.

The bartender grunted. "If their names would fit in with the rest," he said challengingly.

Neal met his stare calmly. "Do you have a pen?"

Max handed one over and the young man knelt, signing his name with a flourish. His girlfriend did the same.

Curious, Max leaned over and read the names. "Kate Moreau. Neal Caffrey." He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "_The _Neal Caffrey?"

Neal beamed, clearly taking the question as an enormous compliment. "The one and only."

"Thank god," Kate teased. "Can you imagine if there were two of you?"

Neal made a face and Max was struck by a wave of déjà vu.

"Have you been here before?" he asked off-hand, trying to conceal the intensity of his interest.

He must have failed, because Neal was suddenly very tense. "Once or twice," he said carefully.

Max nodded to the sketch. "I saw you looking at it. Did you ever meet him?" A sneaking suspicion was growing over him but he didn't want to say anything quite yet.

Neal seemed to be having the same thoughts. "Yes," he said slowly. "A long time ago."

Max couldn't say anything. Neal had to be in his early to mid twenties. Cal had died almost ten years ago, which meant that, assuming he was telling the truth, he would've been just a kid.

And Max knew of only one kid who was familiar with both Cal and the pool hall and would know the name Danny Brooks.

"It's you, isn't it?" he said quietly. "You're Danny, aren't you." It was a statement, not a question.

The alarm in Neal's eyes told him he was right.

"Danny?" Kate asked, looking between the two. "Is that your real name?"

Neal answered her absently, not taking his eyes off Max. "Neal is the name I was born with. It's complicated." He bit his lip, clearly thinking hard. Max could practically see the moment when it came to him.

"You're _Max_," Neal burst out, delighted. "I didn't even recognize you. You're still tending bar?"

Max inclined his head slightly. "Come have a drink, both of you. I'm going to guess you want something a little stronger than a soda?" he asked Neal, grinning.

Neal smiled back and took a seat next to Kate, who still looked a bit off-balance.

"Are all the old crowd gone now?" Neal asked.

"Yeah," Max said with a bit of a sigh. "It makes me feel old, but I guess I am. Seeing you all grown up doesn't help either."

Kate leaned forward, a mischievous expression on her face. "Oh, really? And what was Neal like as a kid?"

Her boyfriend elbowed her playfully. "Let's _not_ talk about that," he said mock-cheerfully.

Max had been smiling, but now he sobered. "You're right. We have more important things to talk about. I have something for you." He quickly retrieved Ellen's package from the high shelf it had rested on for five years and blew on it to remove the dust.

Taking his seat again to take the pressure off his sore knees, he passed it to Neal.

The young con took it curiously, turning it over and over in his hands. "What is it?"

"I don't know," Max admitted. "I never opened it. But she came by, a couple of months after you… left."

Neal flushed, knowing that the old bartender had carefully avoided saying 'ran away'.

"You said 'she' came by?" he said, trying not to think about that day. "Who?"

Max smiled. "Ms. Ellen."

Kate immediately turned to her boyfriend. "Ex-girlfriend?"

Max couldn't help himself; he chuckled once while Neal rolled his eyes.

"Definitely not," Neal said. "Ellen is… an old friend." He was looking at the package in his hands again.

He reached for one flap of the paper it was wrapped in but hesitated almost imperceptibly. Kate seemed to notice and put one hand on his shoulder for comfort.

He slowly tore the paper off, revealing a simple cardboard box. Inside were two things; A slip of paper and a disposable cell phone.

Kate looked baffled. "Burner phone? Did she _expect_ you to be on the run or something?"

Neal chuckled and for a moment Max thought he saw tears in his eyes. But then he looked up and smiled brilliantly. "You have no idea how much this means to me. I knew she'd already be gone, and I- I thought I'd never be able to find her again."

Kate scowled, annoyed that Neal was still keeping her in the dark. "Is she in hiding or something?"

Neal brushed his fingertips across her cheek. "I'll explain later," he murmured.

To Max, he said, "I don't know how I can ever thank you enough."

Max shook his head. "You don't need to. For Ms. Ellen's sake. And for Cal's."

Neal stood and held out a hand. "I wish I could say that I'll be back some day to beat all your customers at pool, but I can't promise anything."

Max took the hand and shook it. "That's the life. Goodbye, Neal Caffrey."

Neal and Kate were almost out the door when Neal turned back for an instant.

"By the way," he said. "I like the frame."

* * *

**A/N- The saying on the frame comes from "Countermeasures" and I always really loved it (the story's title also comes from the saying, obviously).**

**P.S. I'm sure no one cares, but today is the first day of school. Say what? Where did summer go?**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N- Sorry it took me so long to update- first week of school= insanity. **

**Okay, so I have a question. I did write a version of the big 18th birthday truth scene, but it didn't come out quite like I expected and it's pretty long. Do you guys think I should work it in, maybe as a flashback or something?**

**Oh, and P.S.- these next couple chapters aren't my favorites, but it felt weird just skipping over all this stuff. Don't worry, the pool hall will make a reappearance.**

* * *

Ellen stepped back, admiring her handiwork. Ideally, the bulbs she'd just planted would give rise to a series of colorful blooms. They were perennials, too, so they'd come back every year.

Her smile faded slightly. _Five years_. Five years, and nothing.

It wasn't as hard as it had been in the beginning. Ellen had always been practical, and she knew very well that there was nothing she could do but wait for her boy to find her.

_Her boy._

She still had nightmares, sometimes, of the marshals showing up and saying, _Ma'am, I'm sorry to inform you that we've found Neal Caffrey's body._

Or even worse, nothing. No word, no news, nothing, because he died and no one knew or they just didn't tell her because as far as anyone was concerned, there was no connection between Neal Caffrey and Danny Brooks.

Ellen shook herself out of her dark fantasies when she heard a phone ringing inside. She crossed the balcony's threshold and felt a rush of cool air as she entered the air-conditioned apartment.

Yanking off her dirt-encrusted gardening gloves, she searched for the phone. To her surprise, it wasn't the main phone line. Swearing, she dug through her purse for her cell phone.

She finally found it and hastily pressed the button to accept the call, but nothing happened. The ringing didn't stop. She looked at her cell. The screen was dark.

By now she was completely bewildered. What on earth was that ringing coming from?

The ring cut off as the call probably went to voicemail. Ellen sank down on the couch only to jump right back to her feet as the phone pealed anew. She checked both phones again. Nothing.

Where the hell was it?

Suddenly, realization struck her with all the force of an oncoming train. She sprinted to her bedroom, yanked open her nightstand's drawer, and pawed through the contents with shaking fingers. Finally, she found the small black burner phone that was making such a god-awful ruckus.

She opened it and brought it to her ear, trying to control her fast breathing. She heard a beep as the call connected.

There was a brief silence, then a male voice, nervous and low, said, "Ellen?"

Ellen hitched in a breath.

* * *

Neal told Kate an abbreviated version of the story. He left out the bits about his father and witness protection, just saying that they had to stay low-profile. He let her draw her own conclusions as to why.

All he said about Ellen was that she was an old friend, and he trusted her with his life.

And then he'd asked her to leave while he made the call.

She hadn't liked it much, but she'd understood that this was hard for him to share, even with her.

Now he sat alone in their hotel room (paid for under an alias) and ran his thumb over the burner phone.

Even that could be dangerous, he knew. If anyone had ever known of its existence, they could have easily bugged it or traced it. Mozzie often ranted on similar subjects for hours, and while he tended to be rather paranoid, he was occasionally right.

But he needed to know, needed to hear her tell him it was okay…

He pressed Speed Dial #1, just like the note in the box had said.

His palms were slick as he listened to it ring…

And ring.

And ring.

After six rings, six torturously long rings, there was a slight click and a robotic voice told him to leave a message. He shut the phone.

But for some reason, he couldn't let himself give up so easily. He pressed Speed Dial #1 again. After all, one more try couldn't hurt, right?

He counted the rings again. On the fourth ring, someone picked up.

Neal froze. He hadn't considered what he would say if she answered. He thought he could hear breathing on the other end of the line, but whether it was her or not, they didn't say a word.

He realized it was up to him to make the first move. Tentatively, he said, "Ellen?"

There was a rush of static as she sucked in a breath, then; "Neal?"

"Yeah," he said thickly. "It's me."

"Oh lord, Neal," Ellen said, sounding just like he remembered. "I thought I'd never hear from you again."

Neal felt horribly guilty. "Yeah. I went back to the pool hall. Max gave me the package. Look, Ellen, I'm so sorry."

Ellen laughed hollowly. "I'm sorry too, Neal. I should've told you from the beginning."

Neal frowned. He really didn't want to dredge all that up again. "It doesn't matter now. Look, I can't talk for very long, just in case. I'm not sure if you've heard anything, but I have just as many people after me as are after you. More, probably."

"What?" Ellen's voice was upset, almost angry. "Neal, are you okay? Who's after you?"

"Um," Neal stalled, wishing he hadn't said anything. "Well, the FBI, for one."

Ellen was silent. Finally, she asked carefully, "Do I want to know?"

"No," Neal admitted. "But let's just say that I followed Cal's career more than yours." He imagined Ellen running one hand over the top of her braid like she always used to do when he was causing trouble.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised," she said. "But you're right; the less I know the better. Now listen, do you have a piece of paper?"

Neal fished out the hotel's notepad and a pen. "I do."

"Copy this down," Ellen ordered before reading out an address.

He dutifully copied it down. When he was done, he really looked at it for the first time. "That's Roosevelt Island," he exclaimed, startled. "You're in _New York_?"

"Shh!" Ellen hissed. "But yes, why?"

"That's where I went," he admitted, still amazed by the coincidence. "After I ran, I went to New York City."

"Really?" Ellen said. "I wish I'd known you were so close."

"Me too. Look, I know I can't visit -I have too many enemies of my own now- but I'll send you something, okay? A better way to keep in touch."

"What?" Ellen asked.

"You'll see. Now, when I hang up I want you to take the phone, go to the nearest body of water, and throw it in."

"Do you have to go already?" Ellen asked sadly.

Neal felt exactly the same. "Yeah. There's this FBI agent, Peter Burke, who's been on my case for months. He's been closing in for days. Kate and I have to get out of here quick, and our plane is leaving soon."

"Kate?" Ellen inquired. "Girlfriend?"

Neal flushed, feeling extremely glad that Ellen couldn't see him. "Yeah. You'll meet her someday. I promise."

"You must be really serious about her," Ellen mused.

"I am, but I really have to go."

"Of course. Neal- Be safe. I love you."

Neal swallowed. "I love you too, Ellen. I'll see you again someday. I know I will." Reluctantly, he shut the phone.

Kate opened the door a crack. "Neal, we have to go, like, five minutes ago. The cops are coming, _now_."

"Then let's go," Neal said, standing and holding out a hand.

She took it and they ran out into the hot afternoon sunlight.

* * *

Neal always kept his promises.

A week or two after the phone call, a package arrived via private courier. Nothing fancy that might pique any interest, but still safer than the U.S. Postal Service.

The package contained a rectangle of black plastic –a pager- and a letter. The letter was in Neal's elegant hand, and in it he apologized profusely for running without saying goodbye.

There was also an account of Neal's life up to the present (she appreciated that any references to illegal activities had been censored with a black sharpie).

At the bottom of the page was a pager number and a request for her to use it if she ever needed him (although there was also a reminder that although pagers were harder to track than cell phones, it should be used for emergencies only).

There was also a photo of Neal with his arm around a beautiful, dark-haired girl. Ellen marveled at how grown-up and handsome he was. He really did look like his father…

* * *

She found out about his arrest on the news the same day that she received another package.

She'd been out on the balcony tending her plants when she saw the delivery truck. At first, she didn't think anything of it. She tended to receive very little mail. It wasn't until she'd bent over her begonia's and got a better look at the truck that she realized she recognized the logo- it was the same company Neal had used to contact her before.

She jumped as the buzzer for the door went off.

When the courier was driving away (surreptitiously swigging from a small flask when he thought no one was looking), Ellen examined the package carefully.

It had two parts- a long, sturdy tube and a small envelope. She opened the envelope first.

_Dear Ellen,_ she read.

_DO NOT OPEN THE CONTAINER. Sorry. It's just better if you don't know. I didn't really want to involve you in this, but the FBI is closing in and I don't have much choice. I was hoping you could keep it safe, just for a little while. I was already planning on dropping in on you soon (I would have already if not for an annoyingly persistent FBI agent)._

_Look at it this way; Now you have insurance that I won't run out before we can talk. A lot has happened since we last talked. I'll tell you all about it when I see you. I still have the pager- You have no idea how hard it is to keep track of something so small when you're on the run._

_You didn't hear that last part._

_Love, _

_Neal._

_P.S. If a woman named Sara Ellis shows up and asks for the package, DO NOT TALK TO HER. Although, if you want to scare her, go right ahead. She _really_ hates me._

* * *

Ellen laughed and folded the letter back up, noticing as she did so that it was postmarked from the previous day. She shot a curious glance at the tube, but didn't move to open it. Neal was usually right; It was better if she didn't know.

She took the tube and stowed it in the back of her closet, hidden behind a screen of old coats and dresses.

She was about to make herself a mug of tea when there was a knock at the door.

Ellen carefully peered through the peephole before opening the door. The marshals were the only ones who could get into the building without buzzing, but it never hurt to be cautious.

Sure enough, she recognized one of the marshals who'd helped her get moved in a few years earlier.

"Oh, Mr…" she hesitated, trying to remember his name, "Baisely, wasn't it?"

The marshal smiled. "Cody, please, Ms. Parker. May I come in?"

"Ellen, please," she said, standing aside so that the man could duck into the apartment. "What's this about?" For a moment, she wondered if the marshals had seen the delivery earlier. Surely they wouldn't move her just because she was in contact with Neal?

Cody frowned, brushing blond hair off his forehead with thick fingers. "Ms. Parker- That is, Ellen, I'm here to inform you that Neal Caffrey has been arrested this morning."

Ellen sank into a chair as her legs could no longer support her weight. "Oh, goodness," she whispered.

Cody shifted uncomfortably. "We know of your connection to Mr. Caffrey, so I thought it might be best if you heard of it from us."

"What are the charges?" she asked, recovering slightly.

The marshal didn't look her in the eye. "There are quite a few. Forgery, art theft…"

Ellen buried her face in her hands. She _really_ didn't want to know what was in the package now.

Cody was still talking. "No one knows about Mr. Caffrey's connection to you or the marshals. We're going to keep it that way. It's safer for both of you. But, Ellen, I have to know- Has he tried to contact you?"

Ellen felt the letter burning a hole in her back pocket. "No. I- I haven't heard from him since he left," she lied.

Cody nodded and stood to leave. "I'm very sorry, Ellen. I remember that I met him once when I was first assigned to your case. He seemed like a good kid."

Later, when the marshal was long gone and Ellen was alone with the letter, she whispered fiercely, "He still is."

* * *

Kate stood outside the apartment complex on Roosevelt Island, looking at the address in her hand. She'd decoded it from a letter Neal had sent her from prison. 4221 Main Street, and a Roosevelt Island area code.

She scanned the list, searching for the right apartment. There. 14E, home of one E. Parker.

Kate frowned. She'd never heard of any E. Parker before. What had Neal sent her into?

Well, she'd already come this far. And besides, she needed the Raphael. If she could fence it, she could disappear. And she needed to disappear. Some was following her, playing with her.

If she cased a score, there would be cops sitting on the building the next day. If she tried to sell a forgery, the fences were tipped off in advance. And just yesterday, right after she'd returned from her weekly meeting with Neal (during which she hadn't said a word about her streak of bad luck, not wanting to scare him into doing something stupid) there had been a man waiting in her apartment. He'd said that he was FBI, and that his name was Fowler.

And he'd asked her about the music box.

She hated the stupid thing. It was cursed. She and Neal had split over it, and when he still tried to do the heist, it had gone south. Much as she didn't like Alex, she'd felt a little guilty hearing about the girl's injuries.

She'd told Fowler the truth, that she didn't know where it was and she wouldn't give it to him if she did.

He hadn't liked that.

So now she stood outside this stupid apartment on Roosevelt Island to retrieve a stolen Raphael. She told herself it wasn't abandoning Neal. She had no choice. She was protecting him. (Inwardly, she knew that she was running away like a coward, but so what? Running seemed to have worked for Neal for quite a while.)

She pressed the buzzer for 14E. "Ah, hello?" she said uncertainly. Neal's letters hadn't included instructions on what to do once she was here.

"Neal Caffrey told me to come here?" she tried.

To her surprise, she was immediately buzzed in. She made her way carefully to apartment 14E, knocking lightly on the open door because she couldn't think what else to do.

"Come in!" A voice called from within. When Kate complied, the figure that greeted her was so unexpected that she immediately dropped into the con mask that Neal had taught her.

The woman, while too young to be described as elderly (which to Kate had always implied frailty, and this woman was incredibly healthy looking) was definitely getting on in years. Her face was lined but firm and appraising as she looked Kate up and down.

"Well, don't you look familiar," the woman said cryptically. "Not the one that hates him, then. I guess I don't have to scare you off. Come have a seat."

Kate obeyed numbly. When she was seated across from the woman, perched on a comfortable chair, she blurted out, "Are you his mom?"

The woman laughed, a deep chuckle that calmed a few of Kate's fears. "Neal's? Oh, no. You could say that I'm an old family friend. You can call me Ellen."

"Ellen? As in 'Ms. Ellen'?" Kate said, finally making the connection.

"You've been to the pool hall," Ellen observed. "I'm assuming you're the infamous Kate?"

Kate flushed. "Neal mentioned me?" She tried not to feel guilty. She was protecting him by leaving. Protecting him.

"He said I'd meet you someday," Ellen said vaguely. "He seemed to care about you a lot." Her sharp gaze belied the comment's apparent innocence.

Kate wasn't really sure how to answer, so she changed the subject. "I'm here to get a, um, package that Neal left here." She wondered suddenly how much exactly this woman knew.

Ellen seemed to read her mind. "Oh, yes. That package. Plausible deniability is a wonderful thing, don't you think?" She smiled wryly. "If you'll wait here a moment, I'll get it."

When she was gone, Kate looked around curiously. The apartment was small but open and airy, with comfortable furnishings and a generally homey feeling. Definitely not where she'd have pegged Neal to hide a stolen multi-million dollar painting. Of course, that might have been the point.

Ellen returned quickly, holding a long painting tube. Kate couldn't help it; her eyes immediately locked onto it, drawn by the presence of such a priceless piece of art. Ellen definitely noticed. Her frown lines became more pronounced.

"Before I give this to you," Ellen said, holding the tube close as if she thought Kate might snatch it and run, "I need you to promise me something."

"What?" Kate asked, suddenly impatient to be away from this too-knowing woman.

"Promise me," Ellen said clearly, "That giving you this will not hurt Neal. Physically, emotionally, legally- I don't care. Swear to me that you won't use this to hurt him."

Kate couldn't speak, her stomach twisting in sudden anguish. If she took it, if she fenced it and used the money to run, it would kill Neal. She couldn't explain it to him, so he'd be forced to assume that she'd left him. And that could break him.

Ellen was watching her like a hawk. "I'm a pretty good judge of character," she said, "And I think that you care about him almost as much as he cares about you. But people can still do terrible things to the ones they love. I don't know you, but I think you'll do what's best for Neal." She held out the painting.

Numbly, Kate took it. She looked down at the white plastic sheathe, brushing her fingers over its smooth surface. This was it. Her ticket to a new life, away from Fowler and music boxes and _Neal_.

Could she do this to him? Did she have any other choice? They'd already proven that they were following her, practically predicting her actions. What would they do to Neal if she warned him?

And, of all paintings, it was _this _one that he'd left her, the one that symbolized so much for them.

And what if she stayed? Neal had only a few more months left on his sentence. If she could just hold out, they could go together...

Except that the moment they were together in the same place, Fowler would use her as leverage to find the stupid music box. Normally, she would be ecstatic at the chance to get rid of it, but she had a horrible suspicion that she knew who was the real mastermind behind Fowler. And if it was him, they'd never be safe. Especially not Neal.

So she would have to stay away from him, keep to the shadows. She still remembered all their old codes and tricks to avoid detection. It would be circuitous, it would be irritating, but she could leave Neal a trail that would show him what he needed to do without giving too much away.

And she could start her own investigation, starting with his stashes that she knew. But the Raphael...

She looked up at Ellen, smiling sadly. The woman had been silent and watchful as Kate had struggled with her thoughts, but now she spoke.

"Well?"

"I swear to you, I will do everything I can to keep him safe," Kate vowed, knowing that physical safety was probably all she could guarantee, and even then, it wasn't a sure-fire thing.

"But," she continued, "I can't take this. I want Neal to have it, just in case. Keep it safe please, Ellen."

Ellen smiled and took it from her hands. "I'd hoped you might change your mind." She followed behind as Kate made her way to the door.

Kate paused in the hall, turning back to Ellen. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Ellen. It's good that Neal has so many people who care for him."

"Yes it is," Ellen agreed. "Now, you take good care of my boy, understand?"

Kate gaped at her, even as the door closed in her face.

_Her_ boy?

* * *

**Please review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N- Remember, I warned you that this wasn't quite how I wanted it, especially not the scene between Neal and Ellen. I added some of the info from the latest episode (Neal's dad's last name), so extra spoilers.**

**Also, I have decided that I will definitely update every day I _don't_ have school, and only if I can on school days. So, yeah. There's only, like, two more chapters after this, so I might actually finish it this weekend. No promises.**

**Thanks for all the positive reviews!**

* * *

The reunion was awkward, to say the least.

Oh, it was sweet too; The hug, the reminisces, getting to see the one photo remaining from his childhood.

Neal had been looking forward to seeing her for so long, but had never been able to justify it. Her apartment was outside his radius, and asking Peter to take him would bring up way too many questions.

But now he had no choice, because he needed the Raphael. And it was wonderful to see her, and to see that she wasn't angry at him for running like he had.

But the truths revealed that day still hung over their conversation, staining it with a bit of regret. Later, when Neal had been forced to run and was sitting on a plane headed for a tropical paradise with no extradition, he couldn't help himself from remembering the day he'd run and comparing it with his current situation.

* * *

It had been raining that day.

Danny –because he had still been Danny then, even if just for one last day- hadn't minded. Rain was, in its own way, just as beautiful as sunlight. He loved lying on his stomach on the pale wooden floor of his bedroom, sketching, as the rain drummed out its staccato beat.

Sure, walking through the downpour wasn't exactly fun, but he had a hood, right? And city buses, while not particularly comfortable or nice-smelling, were at least dry. He'd been taking public transportation to school every day since he'd figured out how to forge a city bus pass (Ellen had disapproved, but she'd turned a blind eye as long as he got to school on time). Danny had survived much worse weather than a bit of rain.

Still, he was glad to enter the sanctuary of the school with his hair still presentable and his clothes un-soaked.

Students called out to him as he strutted through the halls, wishing him a happy birthday. He acknowledged each well-wisher individually with a wave or a charming smile.

He'd always considered people skills important. With his good looks and outgoing personality, he was quite popular, especially among the school's female population. But while he was careful to always remain friendly, remembering names and keeping on everyone's good graces, he wasn't especially close to anyone. Though he knew and was known by every member of the student body, there wasn't a single person that he could confide personal information to. No one knew about his mom, or that he didn't have a dad. No one would recognize Ellen's name.

Danny was careful to keep it that way.

He'd never been quite sure why he bothered maintaining the almost imperceptible distance between himself and his peers. It wasn't that he was solitary; On the contrary, he was an extremely social creature. But he'd always been… secretive.

Of course, that was probably a learned behavior. For as long as he could remember, there had been secrets at home. His mother's distance. His father. Danny had long since outgrown his mother's bedtime stories. He knew that the story of his father, a hero gunned down by bad guys, was too clean cut. It could have been true –it was common enough for cops to die in the line of duty- but that didn't explain why his mother had all but shut down, or why Ellen didn't want to talk about him at all.

That bothered Danny most of all. Ellen had always insisted that they both tell each other the truth, but something was holding her back from telling him this. Was it grief for her lost partner, even after all these years? Guilt? Did she somehow think she could have saved him?

There were other, darker secrets too. Danny remembered when he was sixteen, he'd won an art prize. It had been a big deal, and they'd wanted to put his picture in the paper.

Ellen had refused.

He'd heard her arguing with his mom later that night. Danny's mom had heard about it somehow (Danny hadn't really cared how, he was just glad that she'd noticed) and was angry with Ellen's interference.

Ellen was just angry.

"I don't see why he can't enjoy the recognition," his mom had said. "He's always been such a talented boy."

"It would bring too much attention," Ellen said with forced patience. "You know why I had to say no."

"It wasn't your decision, Ellen," Mrs. Brooks snapped. "_I'm_ his mother."

"Oh, really?" Ellen said icily. "You don't act like it. You're off who-knows-where most evenings while he's all alone in the house."

"He's a big boy."

"Was he a big boy five years ago? Ten? Because this isn't exactly a recent development. You've never been there for him. I have. Where do you go, all those evenings when you're supposed to be watching him? To bars? I've asked him if he knows, but he won't say anything."

"That's none of your business!" his mother screamed. "We're not talking about me, we're talking about him!"

"Suddenly you care about him?" Ellen challenged. "Well, if you do care about him, then do you want him to have to leave his entire life, his friends, his school, and go away? Is that what you want?"

"Of course not," his mother replied, but her voice was weak. Ellen had already won.

"Then we have to blend in. Not draw attention to ourselves. We have to just be three more people in a big city." Ellen's voice was soft now, though Danny could hear a thin vein of anger and frustration.

It wouldn't occur to him until years later that maybe she was so angry because she wanted him to be able to enjoy his triumph just as much as his mom had.

* * *

The argument he'd overheard had consumed his thoughts for weeks. Why did they have to hide? Why would he have to leave if someone did notice them?

He'd wondered if it had to do with his mom. After all, hadn't Ellen brought up how often she disappeared? Danny had known from a young age that that wasn't how a parent was supposed to behave. Now, he wondered if it was bad enough to be considered neglect. Surely they couldn't be hiding from Child Services… could they?

No, Ellen took care of him. No one could possibly say that he was neglected. Sure, his mom was never there, but if the courts ever did decide to take him out of her custody, he could just stay with Ellen, right?

But… he wasn't actually related to Ellen. Could non-family members take in children? If anyone knew about his mom's absences, would he be sent to foster care?

Danny had decided to never find out. He kept his head down, did his schoolwork, and never let anyone get close enough to see what things were like at home.

But now he was eighteen –legally an adult. They wouldn't have to hide anymore.

So, despite the rain, Danny felt his spirits higher than they had been in a while. He was an adult, he had received his letter of acceptance to the Police Academy just a few weeks earlier (he tried not to think about how false Ellen's smile had been when she'd heard the news), and so soon, he'd be free to do absolutely anything he wanted.

He considered maybe stopping by the pool hall after school the next day. Why not? It would be nice to see the old place again, and beating a bunch of old grifters at their own game (whether billiards or something a bit less legal) would be fun.

It was too bad that his life fell apart before he could.

* * *

It had started innocently enough. He'd arrived home from school that afternoon to find Ellen already at home (she'd told him that she would be taking the afternoon off). He smiled and bent slightly to hug her. He'd long since surpassed her in height, so it was slightly awkward, but Danny didn't really care.

"Good day?" he asked cheerfully, kicking off his muddy sneakers.

Ellen smiled at him, but it was forced. "My day was fine. How about you, Birthday Boy?"

Danny made a face, knowing as he did so just how immature he must look. "Don't you dare call me that. It makes me sound like I'm five or something. But yeah, my day was good. Where's Mom?"

Ellen didn't say anything, but it didn't really matter. Danny already had a pretty good idea.

"Oh well," he said lightly. "More cake for us."

Ellen laughed appreciatively, but something still seemed off. It was really starting to worry Danny. He tried to keep it light, hoping that Ellen might get over whatever it was.

"School was okay, I guess, but you should have heard Mrs. Adams going on about late Renaissance art. It was embarrassing to listen to. She had _no_ clue what she was talking about." He shook his head in disgust. "At least I won't have to put up with it for much longer. Just a couple of months until graduation, then off to the Police Academy."

Ellen visibly stiffened. "About that… Listen, Danny, we need to talk."

Danny felt a wave of foreboding wash through him, but he ignored it. "What do you mean? Is everything okay?"

"Do you mind if we sit down?" Ellen asked, clearly stalling.

Danny acquiesced, allowing Ellen to guide him over to the couch. He sat next to her, taking one of her hands in his own. He noticed that her fingers were cold.

"Ellen, is everything alright?" he asked worriedly.

She sighed, holding on to his hand tightly. "Danny, I need to tell you something. Something you might hate me for."

"I could never hate you, Ellen," he said, aghast.

"I might deserve it," she said tiredly. "Listen, Danny, I know you want to go into the Police Academy."

"Yeah," Danny said, struggling to keep up. "I want to be a cop, just like Dad. I mean, he was a hero and-"

Ellen's vise-like grip made him break off. "He wasn't a hero," she said steadily, looking Danny in the eyes.

"He- What? I don't… What do you mean?"

Still not breaking eye contact, she repeated, "He wasn't a hero, Danny. And he's not dead."

Danny couldn't form words.

"I never wanted to lie to you about him," Ellen said. "That was your mother's idea. She didn't want you to have to grow up knowing-"

"Knowing what?" Danny demanded, having found his voice.

"That he was a bad man," Ellen said softly. "That he was evil. That he was a dirty cop."

Danny tried to yank his hand out of hers, but her grip was too strong. "He wasn't," he insisted. "He died a hero!"

"No, he didn't," she said bluntly. "Your father isn't dead. He's in prison."

Danny stopped struggling, his eyes wide and horrified. "Why? What did he do?" It didn't even occur to him that by asking the question, he was accepting that Ellen's revelations were true.

Ellen looked pained. "You know that I was his partner for a while. Well, I also arrested him. I didn't have a choice."

"_Why?_" Danny repeated angrily.

The woman sitting opposite him, the woman who was closer than his mother, who'd just admitted that she'd lied to him his whole life, closed her eyes.

And spoke.

"He confessed to murder."

Danny jerked, finally succeeding in freeing his hand. "He _can't_ be," he said pleadingly, turning his all-too-familiar blue eyes on Ellen. Goosebumps rose on her skin at how familiar the words sounded from when Danny had protested that Cal couldn't be dead. "He _can't_ be a murderer. I've wanted to be just like him all my life! Now you're telling me that he killed someone? Oh, god." He buried his face in his hands.

Ellen rubbed a hand up and down his back. "I'm so sorry. I wanted to tell you for so long, but… I guess I didn't want you to have to deal with this either."

Suddenly, Danny wrenched his head up, catching her gaze. "Wait," he said, brow furrowed. "Earlier, you said that you never wanted to lie to me about _him_. So lying about my dad was the only thing that bothered you? What else did you lie about?" His voice was getting louder and louder, practically shouting.

Slowly, Ellen pulled her hand away from him. "Danny, I know you're upset, but I need you to listen. It was too dangerous to tell you before, but you're not a child anymore."

Despite himself, Danny was interested. Was he finally about to learn the truth about why they had to hide?

"I arrested your father," Ellen repeated, sending a pang of fury through Danny all over again, "but it was complicated. They thought I was in danger, so they offered to place me in Witness Protection."

"Why didn't you accept?" Danny asked, upset at the thought of Ellen being in danger.

But Ellen was staring at him with pity, as if he was missing something extremely obvious. "Danny, I _did_ accept."

"And you don't think that hanging out with your ex-partner's wife and kid made it a bit obvious where you were?" he asked.

Ellen sighed. "I didn't go into Witsec alone."

Danny still didn't understand, _couldn't_ understand. "What does that mean?"

Ellen reached down, picking up a manila folder that Danny hadn't noticed until now. "This is your birth certificate," she said gently, handing it to him.

He opened it, looking at the ornate piece of paper carefully. "That's not my name," he said, anger and panic and confusion building up inside of him as he began to understand. "That's not me."

"Yes, it is," Ellen said. "Witsec gave you a new identity. You were just two, so it didn't take long for you to forget your old name."

He stared back down at it. "Neal," he read, understanding striking like lightening. "So that's why-"

Ellen nodded. "She could never accept that you had a different name. What I told you about her wanting to name you Daniel and your father wanting Neal was true. But when he was arrested, she wasn't the same. I think that calling you Neal was her way of trying to hold on to him. But your name, your real name, is Neal George Bennet."

"No!" Danny/Neal said suddenly, standing. "I'm not going to take a murderer's name."

Ellen looked taken aback. "Neal, your name isn't Brooks. You have to accept that."

"I know that," Neal said scathingly, not caring for the first time that he was being rude, that he was out of control. Cal would frown, but he just didn't care. "But I'm not using his last name. If anything, my name would be-" he searched the paper quickly, finding the spot labeled 'Mother's maiden name' "-Caffrey."

Ellen smiled slightly. "Neal Caffrey. It sounds good. But, Neal, this doesn't have to change anything-"

"It doesn't have to change anything?" Neal interrupted. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? You expect me to just go back to school tomorrow, pretend everything's exactly the same? Just tell everyone 'Hey, I'm not who I thought I was, my name isn't even my name, and oh, by the way, my dad is a dirty cop who's in prison for murder'? You think that finding out that my whole stupid life was a lie doesn't change things?"

"Neal, please," Ellen begged, standing up.

But Neal was already backing away, tears in his eyes. "I trusted you!" he yelled. "But you and Mom, you've never _once_ told me the straight truth!" He turned, fumbling with the doorknob.

"_NEAL!_" Ellen screamed, hurrying after him as he ran out the door. He was too fast for her, though, and by the time she reached the hallway, it was empty.

Danny –Neal- was gone.

* * *

Later, he would never be able to recall how he got to the train station. One minute he was running out on Ellen, the next, he was being shoved to and fro by a crowd of people as he stood in front of a ticket kiosk.

He had no idea what he was doing. Where did he think he could go? He had a bit of money, but it wouldn't last long. Well, that wouldn't be _too_ much of a problem. Cal had taught him well.

He had a fake ID that identified him as a twenty-one-year-old college student, so that should help him get out of town if Ellen had already called the police.

Where would he go?

A list of departures caught his eye. There, three entries down, was a train that departed in twenty minutes. New York City. He suddenly remembered a fragment of conversation.

_We have to blend in. Not draw attention to ourselves. We have to just be three more people in a big city._

Well, it would be even easier to hide just one person, right? And New York was the biggest city around.

He bought the ticket.

* * *

One train ride and almost a thousand miles later, Neal George Caffrey stepped off the train and into the busy streets of New York.

First things first, he decided, he needed somewhere to stay. He didn't have any money, but that didn't matter. He put on his most charming smile.

_The game beckoned._

* * *

Except, Neal thought, dragging himself back to the here-and-now, _this_ time, he was running from New York, not towards it. He knew which one he preferred.

And it was not the one that involved beautiful, lonely, white sand beaches and half of a cursed Nazi treasure.

But what would regret get him?

* * *

**Thoughts? Good, bad, meh?**

**P.S.- the Child Services thing? Totally not true as far as I know. And that's the point. A kid as bright as Neal would have noticed _something_ and had some sort of theory, but he's still just a kid and doesn't know everything.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N- Thank you so much to all reviewers! You can't imagine how wonderful it is to get so much support. This is another chapter of sort of short connections to scenes in early 4th season. Just some stuff I'd have liked to see.**

* * *

Having already sent away Collins and Burke when they'd tried to trick her into betraying Neal, Ellen had all but prepared herself for another five years of waiting for any sort of contact from Neal. She knew that the FBI wouldn't give up on finding him so easily, but she knew she would never help them. Especially not Burke, who'd thrown Neal in prison in the first place. Did he think she was stupid? Good cop/Bad cop, what a joke.

So when she heard a knock on her front door, she was rather expecting a big, burly FBI agent come to scare information out of her. She couldn't have been more wrong.

The woman was a pretty, petite brunette in a neat suit and skirt. Her blue eyes were bright as she smiled at Ellen.

"Can I help you?" Ellen asked politely, inwardly wondering what on earth she could possibly want.

"Yes, please," the woman said in an almost patronizingly sweet voice. "I'm here to play the good cop. It's nice to meet you, Ms. Parker. I'm Elizabeth Burke."

Ellen felt her face fall into a scowl. "Burke? As in, Peter Burke?"

"He's my husband," Elizabeth explained. "Listen, Ms. Parker, I know it must have sounded odd coming from the man who put Neal in jail, but Peter really is his friend."

"Neal?" Ellen repeated, surprised. "First name basis? How do _you_ know him?"

Elizabeth chuckled slightly. "Neal is... a special person. I'm not sure what you know about his release from prison, but he and my husband work very closely. They're partners. Peter would never let anything happen to him."

"And why should I believe you?" Ellen challenged. "You've already admitted that you're just here to get on my good side. I won't help you or your husband throw him back in prison."

"That's the last thing we want," Elizabeth retorted. "And as for proof, I _could_ show you photos of him in our home, or you could just trust me when I say that both Peter and I care about him."

Ellen stared at her for a moment before nodding slowly. "I believe you. But I still don't think I can help you. Neal can take care of himself. He might be better off wherever he is, and no, I don't know where that is. If you do care about him, you have to see that all he would get by coming home is to be locked up all over again."

"Just talk to my husband," Elizabeth pleaded. "Listen to what he has to say. He's a good man. If staying away is really what's best for Neal, he'll let it go. But if Peter thinks he can bring him home, safe, isn't that worth a try?"

Ellen felt herself weakening with every word Elizabeth Burke said. "Fine," she acquiesced. "But not here. Even with the marshals, I'm never very comfortable right after a move."

Elizabeth grinned in triumph. "And you thought _Peter_ was the good cop."

* * *

Giving up the pager number was one of the hardest things Ellen had ever had to do. She knew that once he realized it was no longer secure, Neal would have to destroy his pager. And she would never be able to contact him again, not even in emergencies, unless Peter Burke succeeded in bringing him home.

But that look in Peter's eye when he'd said that he couldn't live with it if something happened to Neal... it reminded her of another time and place.

_Danny makes friends easily. No one would ever want to see him get hurt._

Except that Peter Burke was really, truly afraid. Because Neal was in genuine danger, not just the hypothetical dangers that she'd entrusted Cal to protect him from.

So she gave him the number and told him to _bring our boy home._

* * *

When she heard that Neal had been shot, her first thought was that she really wished that she'd given Peter the same ultimatum she'd given Cal. It would have given her no amount of pleasure to take out her anger on him, because he'd promised he would _protect_ Neal, not bring him home with a hole in his leg.

Her second thought was that maybe she should give _Neal_ the ultimatum, because odds were that he'd done something stupid and it was his own fault.

No one dared to tell her exactly _who_ or _how_ Neal had been shot.

But when she saw Neal later, and it was clear that he was blatantly ignoring both the doctor's instructions and his own pain, she wasn't able to feel quite as angry as she should have. Despite his limp, his eyes were bright and his smile content. She could tell, just by the lack of tension in his shoulders, that he felt completely at home.

They'd talked about the island, the girl (with Neal, there was always a girl), and his friends in New York. Then, as the night drew on, the topic moved to what Neal had really been doing since they'd last talked. Neal's stories were still clearly edited, and Ellen noticed an amusing amount of "allegedly's", but they laughed and talked all the same.

At one point, Ellen asked what had happened to Kate. She knew instantly that it was a bad memory from the way Neal's eyes shuttered.

"She died," he said softly, staring off into the distance, "A couple of years ago. It's funny, actually. I was terrified that when I got to your apartment, the painting wouldn't have been there because she'd already taken it. That would have been a disaster. Sara could have gone to jail."

"Sara?" Ellen interjected, hoping to steer the conversation into less dangerous waters.

It worked halfway. Neal's expression morphed from wistful to slightly unsure. "Sara Ellis. She's my, ah, ex."

"Sara Ellis? I thought she was the one who hated you!" Ellen said in disbelief, thinking, _Only Neal._

Neal gave a cheeky grin and shrugged. "She did. And then she didn't. And now that I ran, she probably does again. Not that I ran out on her or anything. We'd already split. But things with Sara have always been complicated."

"I should say," Ellen sighed, "But then, everything seems to be either _alleged_ or _complicated_ in your life. But at least you have people who care about you here."

"Yeah," Neal said thoughtfully. "I'm lucky like that."

* * *

But the hardest part for Ellen was a few evenings later, when Neal finally brought up his father. Sure, a boy had the right to know the truth about his father, but couldn't he see how hard she'd worked to leave all that in the past?

She wanted to put it off for another day, any other day, but time was so short. Two weeks...

And Neal looked at her so pleadingly, so intensely determined, and said, "I need to know who I am."

How could she deny him?

"Alright, Neal," she sighed. "If it's that important to you, then I'll do everything I can to help you find out..."

Neal leaned forward in anticipation, his blue eyes shining with a mixture of excitement and nervousness.

"...But not tonight," Ellen said firmly. "We have so little time left, and I don't want to do this right now. Please, let's just enjoy the time we have before I have to leave."

For a moment, Neal looked like he might protest, but then his eyes softened. "Thank you, Ellen. And you're right. So, tell me, what's happened to you since I... Well, since I ran away?"

Ellen smiled sadly. "Not much, honestly. Every place has been so very different and still so much the same. I always make sure that they give me somewhere to plant a garden, though. It gives me something to do to pass the time."

Neal smiled. "That's something we never had before. I-" He broke off, frowning.

Ellen pretended she didn't notice. "Yes," she said cheerfully enough, "I've joined the ranks of old retirees. Gardening and baking. It makes me feel so ancient and boring some days."

"Knowing your baking, I'm sure it could never be boring," Neal teased. "Do you remember when you tried to make banana bread? My backpack almost came apart at the seams, it was so heavy."

She swatted him playfully, and he laughed, though his eyes were sad. Ellen noticed it and her smile faded, as she knew very well what day he was remembering. "Do you think about him a lot?" she asked softly. "Your friend, Cal. He taught you this stuff, didn't he?"

For some reason, Neal suddenly looked extraordinarily guilty. The one of his many masks settled. "A bit," he said easily. "A lot of it came after I left and actually started breaking the law."

Ellen snorted. "Neal, as clever as you were back then, I wasn't blind. I know a lot of what you got up to. Probably even more than you'd expect."

Neal grimaced. "I always kind of thought you knew more than you said. At least the statute of limitations has passed on those."

"Mhm," said Ellen, raising one eyebrow. "Prosecutable or not, I'm guessing this isn't anything you'd want me telling your friend Agent Burke."

"Peter? God, no," Neal said with a shudder. "He'd never let me hear the end of it."

She laughed appreciatively. "I don't know if Peter told you, but at first I didn't believe him. A conman, particularly one as brilliant as you, friends with the FBI agent who put him in prison? That must be an interesting story."

Neal preened slightly at the compliment and shrugged. "Peter's a good man. He got me out of prison. He made me his partner when he could have just treated me as a felon, as a _'tool in his belt'_ like other agents did. I trust him with my life... and more, I guess."

"More?" Ellen inquired.

Neal gestured, trying to gather his thoughts. "Most of my friends are like me, do you understand? Mozzie, my best friend, and even Kate... I'd trust them with my life, too, but there are other things I can't trust them on. In this life, you always have to remember that even those closest to you look out for themselves first. But Peter... I'll admit, it's hard to trust him with personal stuff-"

"Like me?" Ellen said with a slight smile, remembering Peter's admission that Neal had never said a word about her.

Neal flushed slightly. "Yeah. My past, my family... I can't put that on his shoulders. And other stuff too, stuff that's a bit past the grey area of the law... I try to keep that away from him too. But I always know that if push comes to shove, he'll do the right thing. Every time." He paused, sipping his wine.

"Even before the anklet, though, before prison... I don't know. He was in charge of my case, and he was really good. A couple of times, he got closer than I think even he knows. It made it so much more fun to have a good opponent. But even when I know he was practically ripping his hair out, he never once considered giving up. I... respected that. He was determined. To be honest, I think he might have reminded me a little of you." He flashed her a brilliant smile.

Ellen tried not to feel sad, or maybe even jealous. "How so?"

"Well," Neal said slowly, "You're both tough. And... honorable. That's the best word I can think of. You always do what you think is right, no matter the cost."

"And it seems like we're both willing to cut you breaks," Ellen observed, slightly amused.

Neal rolled his eyes. "Believe me, Peter doesn't cut me any breaks very often. Not that he hasn't done a lot for me, but he can be a bit of a stickler for the rules."

"I think your definition might be a bit off," Ellen chuckled. She was going to say something else when her phone vibrated. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Her moth pulled into a frown. "It's the marshals. I have to head back."

Neal rose fluidly and hugged her. "Alright. I'll see you soon. Give me a call if you ever need anything."

"I'll remember that," Ellen assured him. "Good night, Neal."

"Good night, Ellen."

* * *

That evening when she got home, she stood in the dark entryway for a moment, thinking. She could tell when cars passed the house by the way that their headlights briefly illuminated the slits between the blinds and cast eerie stripes over the walls. The sounds of the night-time city filtered in. Distant car horns, muffled voices, even a brief clacking that might have been the wheels of a skateboard going across the cracks in the sidewalk.

Ellen tried to filter it all out and remember.

Eventually, she headed into her bedroom, withdrawing a box from deep within the closet. It was one of the few boxes she hadn't unpacked yet. From the dustiest and most forlorn corner, she withdrew an ancient cellphone.

If she hadn't already promised Neal, she would have immediately chucked it back in the box, but she persevered. Ellen knew that in spite of her early involvement in James' case, she'd never even scratched the surface of that bubbling brew of corruption and secrecy.

In fact, as far as she knew, only one individual had ever even bothered to dig deeper. Sam.

Ellen had never known him quite as well as James had. She'd never worked with him, or gone out for a drink when they were off the clock, or indulged in a game of darts. (She'd have to ask Neal if that was something he liked too. She could practically see his brow scrunched up with that same look of intense concentration James always wore...)

But, although they weren't very familiar on a personal level, she'd heard of Sam before. And when he gave her the phone, promising to find the truth, no matter how long it took, she'd believed him. Now, thirty years later, there were still no answers, but Neal at least had plenty of questions. Sam was the only one who could help.

She made the call.

* * *

A day or two later, the communication had evolved from brief, cryptic phone calls into even briefer, more cryptic e-mails. She'd rolled her eyes when she heard his e-mail address. _CitizenSam._ There was an almost cheesy spy-movie quality about the whole thing.

Still, it was worth it to see the nervous eagerness in Neal's eyes when she gave him Sam's name.

Her intuition flared when Neal introduced his companion, an odd little bald man with thick glasses.

Neal introduced him fondly as "Mozzie", and Ellen caught it again; That amused yet uncomfortable glance between them, as if while Neal cared for both of them, he was less thrilled than he admitted to have them finally meet. Ellen didn't blame him. How uncomfortable must it be to have to introduce your friend and felon (and Ellen had no doubt that this Mozzie was indeed on the far side of the law) to the woman who looked after you as a little kid and happened to be an ex-cop?

It was a look that Ellen remembered well from that one day at the pool hall, when Neal -that is, Danny- had glanced quickly between the two adults before retreating, as if sizing them up. Trying to figure out who would win in a fight, whose influence was stronger.

Cal had definitely won that one, she mused wryly, but it was more of her pushing him away than Cal's legacy pulling him in.

And now he apparently had a new friend /mentor on the far side of the law.

Mozzie was... quirky. She couldn't think of any other word to describe him. Sure, he seemed a bit out there sometimes, but the majority of the time it was actually rather endearing. Ellen thought that his obsession with conspiracies and things that could not be proven covered the same sort of child-like eagerness and wonder that Neal had always possessed.

And, of course, it was clear that Mozzie was very close to Neal. Later, when they'd relocated to Neal's apartment and Mozzie had commandeered a bottle of wine without the slightest sign of guilt, he'd pressed her for details about Neal's childhood, sounding almost like a proud older brother.

Ellen knew better than to tell him too much even before Neal came in and gave her a warning look. Even so long ago, Neal had always kept everything to himself.

But the wine had been good, and Neal was there to moderate, so she shared one little story. And it warmed her heart to see the wistfulness in his eyes as he remembered the old days.

That night, she allowed herself to hope that maybe, someday when Neal was off the anklet and he'd found the truth about James, he'd find her again and they could really talk, with no secrets and no regrets hanging over their heads.

Someday.

* * *

It was strange, Neal reflected as he stood with Sara on the balcony, how things could go to hell like they had with Kramer and the commutation hearing, and then end up in this state of unnatural normality.

He was back in New York on the anklet again, back working under Peter, Mozzie had reappeared after his short retirement, and while things between he and Sara were still... complicated, there was none of the tense uneasiness he'd felt throughout the whole case.

And somehow, unconsciously, he knew it was all too good to last even before he saw the lights flashing outside Ellen's house.

His insides contracted as he saw the marshals' car, complete with two bodies. He could hardly feel his legs as he pushed forward towards the tape, praying that she was alright, that she was alive...

When he finally caught sight of the gurney, feeling rushed back into his legs and he was running, ducking under the tape, because there she was and there was a red stain on her blouse. Someone tried to stop him, but he gasped out, "I'm family! I'm family."

And he was so relieved that they let him through that he didn't even think about how true that was until later, when it was already too late.

But he didn't care right now, because he was at her side. She looked so frail, something he'd never thought of her as before. One bloody hand reached up to pull the oxygen mask down so she could speak.

"They found me," she mumbled, her voice breathy and fading.

"Who?" Neal demanded. "Who did this to you?"

But Ellen didn't answer his question, instead whispering, "Trust... Sam."

The paramedics started talking, and Neal vaguely heard _respiratory arrest_ over the pounding in his ears. They started wheeling her towards the ambulance, pulling the gurney from his numb grip.

"I want to go with you!" he choked out, trying to follow.

But the paramedic just held up a hand, saying, "Let us do our job, okay?"

Neal's face contorted in anguish as he had to watch the ambulance pull away without him. After a moment of stillness, he reached shaking fingers into his pocket, pulling out his cell.

_Peter. Call Peter._

It took two tries for his trembling digit t hit the right button. He raised the phone to his ear. Peter answered after two rings.

"This is Burke."

Neal's lips parted but no sound came out.

"Hello?" Peter's voice sounded annoyed. "Neal, is that you? Are you even there? If this is a butt call, so help me-"

"Peter," Neal finally managed. "They found her."

The horror in his tone must have translated through the phone, because Peter immediately sounded worried. "Neal, are you okay? What's going on? Who found who?"

"Ellen. They found her, Peter. Oh god," he whispered, sinking down onto the front steps of Ellen's house. "I don't know who, but they killed the marshals and- Oh god, Peter. They shot her. They shot Ellen."

"What?" Peter exclaimed, clearly shocked. "Neal, what happened?"

"I don't know!" he said, his voice breaking. "I got here just as they were loading her into the ambulance. They wouldn't let me come with. Peter, I need to get to the hospital."

There were noises on Peter's end of the phone that suggested he was moving quickly. "Neal, I'm on my way, okay? You're at Ellen's place?"

"Yeah," Neal replied softly. "Peter, please hurry. They got her in the chest, and I don't know if she's going to- Please, hurry."

"I'm coming," Peter promised. "It's going to be alright, Neal. She'll be okay."

* * *

She wasn't.

* * *

By the time they got to the hospital, Neal was a mess emotionally. Physically, he probably looked barely any different from usual, but that was just part of being a con. Once you made that mask, it always dropped on you right when you couldn't fight it any more.

The waiting was just as bad, if not worse, than when Mozzie had been the one fighting for his life. Neal couldn't remember hearing Peter call him, but his short friend was suddenly there, placing a comforting hand on his back.

"She's strong, Neal. She'll make it," he said, his face solemn behind his thick glasses.

* * *

She didn't

* * *

Neal knew what the doctor was there to say the moment he stepped into the small waiting room. It was something in the drawn shadows of his face, in the resigned way he stood, as if he'd seen enough death that each new one just ground him down a little more.

"Family of Ellen Parker?" he asked the room at large.

Neal stood slowly and made his way over to the tired man. "I'm Neal Caffrey. I'm family," he said yet again, struck for the first time by how true it was, and how long it had taken him to realize.

The doctor gestured him out into the hallway, and Neal followed, knowing exactly what was coming.

"Mr. Caffrey," the doctor began, his voice low, "The bullet hit Ms. Parker in the upper left side of the chest. We did everything we could, but it nicked her heart. We lost her in surgery. I'm so sorry."

That damn mask was still in place, Neal could feel it, but he was too numb to do anything about it. "Thank you for telling me," he said, his voice sounding off to his own ears. "Can I- Can I see her?"

The doctor looked at him pityingly. "If you're sure you want to. It's often hard for people to see their loved ones after..."

"I'm sure," Neal said in that same strange, thick voice.

* * *

She looked so small. And still.

The crisp white sheet thankfully covered the bloody wound, but Neal could still see it when he closed his eyes.

Peter had insisted on coming with, and he laid one hand on Neal's shoulder.

The mask wavered but didn't break. Couldn't break.

Because it was all he had left.

* * *

**A/N- Seriously, though. Why did they have to kill her? Why? She was literally my favorite new character... It didn't help that when we were watching "Parting Shots", my dad figured it out twenty minutes early during a commercial break. Break my heart that much sooner, huh?**

**Anyways.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N- This is it, folks. The last chapter. Wow. Thank you so much to all reviewers and readers who stuck with me. And I would also like to take a moment to that Florence+the Machine, whose awesome songs helped me get through the mind-numbing task of translating this story from what's in my head to actual typed words.**

**Now, enjoy.**

* * *

"Mozzie, I need a favor," Neal said, joining his friend at the table. "Obviously, my movements are somewhat limited." He didn't even need to gesture to his anklet anymore. Its presence was too ingrained in both of their psyches to ever forget about it.

Mozzie tipped his glass in acknowledgement. "If I may hazard a guess, you need me to aid in some sort of scheme to find Ellen's killer. Good. It's about time."

Neal frowned at him. "That's not it, Moz. Remember, I went down that path with Kate and nearly screwed everything up. No, I'll follow Peter's lead on this one. Ellen was a cop, even if she gave up her badge. She'd want us to do it right."

"Justice, not revenge?" Mozzie said skeptically. "You know, 'Justice is the firm and continuous desire to render to everyone that which is his due'. Justinian. It could be argued that it's simply rendering that which is due. An eye for an eye."

Neal shot him a look. "A life for a life? Don't you think you're being a bit overdramatic? Besides, we don't want another Fowler."

"True," Mozzie allowed. "And you may be right; a woman like Ellen deserves better than crude revenge. And violence has never been our forté. But if it isn't finding her killer, than what's this favor that would require venturing outside your electronic tether?"

"I need you to retrieve a stash outside of the city," Neal said, not meeting Mozzie's eye.

"So this doesn't have to do with Ellen?" Mozzie asked, derailed.

"Sort of, Moz. Can you do it?"

Mozzie sighed. "I have no conflicts in the recent future. Where's the stash?"

Neal glanced up through his eyelashes, gauging his friend's reaction. "St. Louis."

Mozzie's eyebrows raised comically. "As in St. Louis, where you lived as a kid, with Ellen? That St. Louis?"

"Yes, Moz," Neal said, resigned. "There's something I left behind that I need. I want you to go get it, assuming it's still there. I'd do it myself, but obviously, it's a bit outside my two miles."

The short conman looked contemplative. "I suppose that travel could be arranged. I've been meaning to visit the city for a couple of years anyways."

"Oh?" Neal inquired. "Why?"

"There's this pool hall that I want to visit."

"Pool hall," Neal said flatly, knowing deep in his gut where this was going.

"Yes!" Mozzie said excitedly. "It's _infamous_ in certain circles. All the real legends have been there at one time or another. And they all signed their names. Of course, this is all deeply hidden from any governmental cronies. There's even a memorial to an old con who apparently was a regular. I'm surprised you've never heard of it."

Neal swallowed down the tightness in his throat. "I have, actually. Kate and I... We signed our names. We were hiding out in the city after that thing with the Met."

Mozzie looked at him curiously. "And you never mentioned it? Neal, having your name on that wall is a badge of pride! A sort of grifter's Hollywood Boulevard. And you never said a word?"

"I didn't think it was such a big deal," Neal admitted. "And I had other things on my mind at the time. It was the first time I'd been back since I'd run away." He sipped his wine, simply for an excuse to stop talking.

His friend was looking concerned again, probably worried about how Neal would react as the conversation circled back to Ellen again. "Well, it's about time that I add my mark, so to speak. It's no trouble picking up your package while I'm there."

"Thanks, Moz," Neal said, genuinely grateful.

* * *

"No trouble," Mozzie muttered to himself, stalking away from the crumbling building. "How exactly did I get myself roped into this?"

Neal hadn't mentioned just how decrepit the building where he'd stored his stash was. Nor had he explained why it had been tucked into a rudimentary secret compartment in the closest of a bedroom in an abandoned apartment.

But Mozzie had persevered, and now held the long, thin box under one arm. His curiousity was screaming at him to just take a peek, but he held out. After all, Neal would do the same for him.

Probably.

More or less.

* * *

It didn't take Mozzie long to find the pool hall. He was a member of a surprising number of _certain circles_, and he'd always had a good ear for rumor.

The inside was oddly familiar, even though Mozzie had never been there. Perhaps it was the presence of so many of his type of people. One grifter can usually recognize another, and most of the patrons all had the small give-aways; the momentary flicker of attention and wariness as the door opened, the carefully crafted masks, the unthinking elegance and confidence.

At one end of the room, an old man stood behind a bar, calmly wiping out glasses. His sharp eyes latched onto Mozzie for an instant, evaluating him. Apparently the little man must have passed the test, because he smiled vacantly and returned to his task.

Mozzie wandered towards him, for lack of anything else to do. "Gin, please," he told the man.

The bartender nodded and reached behind him, unerringly locating the correct bottle and a glass. "New in town?" he asked conversationally, pouring out a measure of alcohol and passing it to Mozzie.

"Just passing through," Mozzie corrected. "I'm here on an errand for a friend."

The old man smiled. "And you decided to stop in for a drink and a game?" His voice was pleasant but probing.

"Heard about this place from an... acquaintance," Mozzie said carefully.

"They usually do," the bartender laughed, relaxing slightly. "I've been tending bar here for almost thirty years. You wouldn't believe some of the people we get in here."

"Legends," Mozzie said. "To those of us who scorn the system."

The man looked at him funny but his smile didn't fade. "I'm guessing you want to leave your mark?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Mozzie said airily. "My John Hancock, if you will."

The bartender nodded. "You find the list, you can add your name. That's the rules."

Mozzie shrugged. "Got a pen?"

The man handed one over and Mozzie pushed away from the bar, wandering out into the middle of the room. He glanced around, carefully noting details with his perfect recall.

There.

Only one rack of cues in the entire room was completely filled, and the cues themselves looked practically unused compared to their brethren, yet the rack was well-maintained and dust-free.

But before Mozzie could head over to test his theory, something else caught his eye.

A drawing of an older man reclining with a drink and pack of cards hung in a simple yet elegant frame. Mozzie moved closer, trying to identify what exactly had caught his attention about it.

Although the subject was unfamiliar to Mozzie, the artist had done a good job of capturing a certain spark in the eye that Mozzie recognized well. Below, the frame bore the phrase, _Old conmen never die; Their smiles just fade away._

Mozzie stared at it for a moment, his mind racing as he tried to understand why it looked so familiar. His gazed trailed down the naggingly familiar strokes to the bottom right corner, where the artist had inscribed two letters:_ DB._

Immediately, the pieces snapped together. Unlike Kate, Mozzie had seen some early "Neal Caffrey originals". The little con's mouth fell open as he examined the sketch that he now realized was in his friend's distinctive style. And the initials... Neal might have told Peter _first_, but Mozzie too had eventually heard the truth of his childhood as Danny Brooks- or _DB_.

But, then... If Neal had drawn this as Danny Brooks, he still would have been a kid. That meant it would have been at least fifteen years ago... _before_ the tradition of signing the wall had been started.

So, logically, that meant only one thing.

Neal Caffrey, the same Neal Caffrey who'd been so offhand and uncomfortable when Mozzie had brought up the pool house, had unintentionally started the very tradition that brought Mozzie to the place.

Talk about conspiracies.

Wait. Wait just a moment. What had he said?

_Tell Max I said hey..._

Mozzie marched purposefully back to the bar. "Max?" he asked bluntly.

The old man looked up. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

"Are you Max?" Mozzie asked again.

Max smiled. "In the flesh."

* * *

Neal sat on his balcony, breathing in the night time air. Granted, the air above a major metropolis was not of the same quality that one might find, say, at the top of the French Alps.

But it tasted like home.

And it was home, even more so than even St. Louis had ever been. St. Louis, where Mozzie was currently retrieving a package for him and visiting Cal's pool hall and no doubt figuring out the truth even as Neal sat breathing in the slightly polluted air...

Neal groaned and poured himself more wine.

It wasn't as if he were embarrassed or anything, and it certainly wasn't that he didn't trust Mozzie, but... He'd always kept secrets. It was his past. It had always _stayed_ in the past.

Although, there had always been those little reminders, those little nudges...

* * *

_It was his first real heist. The prize- a painting by Amedeo Modigliani, an Italian painter from the late 1800's, early 1900's._

_Neal wasn't stupid enough to try and crack a heist like this on his own -at least, not the first time. His partner was a guy named Erik Embrey. Neal didn't particularly trust him, but that was to be expected in such partnerships._

_For a thief, Erik was rather unassuming. His clothes were nothing special (neither were Neal's, but that was because he had only been able to afford one set besides the one he'd been wearing when he ran). He was a tall man, but slender, almost as if he'd been stretched like taffy._

_However, despite his large, lanky frame and low-key wardrobe, Erik was a highly successful cat-burglar. Normally he wouldn't have involved someone as green as Neal, but the security on the private collection that housed the painting was complex enough to make it a two-man job._

_On the night of the heist, Neal and Erik met up two blocks away from the target, both dressed for a break-in. Silently, Erik passed Neal his ski-mask and bag of tools. Neal smiled appreciatively, pulling the mask over his head. For a moment, he was so distracted by adjusting the mask and getting all the holes lined up with the appropriate parts of his face that he didn't see what else Erik was holding out._

_A pistol glinted in the reflected glow of a streetlight._

_"Take it," Erik said in his gravely voice. "Just in case we run into any trouble. Even if you don't know how to shoot it, oftentimes just having it can scare people off. Go on. We don't have all night."_

_Neal reached out a shaking hand, but hesitated. He heard a whisper, a faint fragment of memory that he'd tried so hard to repress over the last few months._

**_"He confessed to murder."_**

**_Murder._**

_No. No, he wasn't his father. Just because he had it didn't mean he would ever use it. His fingers extended farther, hovering over the gun, almost brushing its cold surface._

_A different voice, deeper, smoother, dull with time, whispered into his other ear._

**_"Stay away from that stuff," Cal advised. "Whatever you end up doing. It's not you, Danny."_**

_His hand pulled back. "No," he said quietly but firmly. "I can't. And you have to leave yours behind too."_

_"What?" Erik said, surprised. "Are you crazy? I'm not just going to leave my piece behind on a job!"_

_Neal's face hardened. "I don't like guns," he said, feeling the truth growing behind the statement. He really didn't, and to be honest, he never had._

_"You leave it behind," he continued, his voice brooking no argument, "Or I don't go. No guns, or we're through here and you can try to get past the security system on your own."_

_Erik had been furious that this kid, this kid who was lucky to be even getting a cut of the profits, was calling the shots, but Neal stood firm._

**_"It's not you, Danny."_**

* * *

"Neal Caffrey," Max repeated with a slight smile. "Damn, does that kid pop up when you least expect it."

"You're telling me," Mozzie said. "The least he could do is tell you what you're getting into, but _nooo_. At least this time there aren't any Chilean gangsters. That was a bad one."

Max bit his lip to keep from laughing. "I really don't want to know. I've found that in this business, it's best for the bartender to be selectively deaf, if you know what I mean."

"Plausible deniability isn't only for high-level government stiff," Mozzie agreed solemnly.

Not knowing quite how to respond to that one, Max passed the little guy another drink. "I saw you looking at the sketch," he commented. "You recognize the artist?"

"Danny Brooks," Mozzie replied, waggling his eyebrows. "Of course, his style has matured over the years, as he's moved into less... _original_ works."

"I'd heard he got caught on some forgeries," Max sighed. "It's a real shame. Kid like that, he could have been anything. He had so much talent. And now he's got a record, and what? Who'd hire him, legally? Real shame. D'you know, he was just nine when he first showed up. Nine."

Mozzie straightened his glasses. "I'd always suspected he was a precocious con. True talent manifests early."

"Doesn't it just?" Max agreed fervently. "Cal took him under his wing, tried to keep him from getting into any real trouble, but you just can't stop talent like that. Nine years old! He even picked Cal's pocket once. You shoulda seen it when Ms. Ellen brought him back in. You would have thought someone kicked a puppy."

"Ms. Ellen?" Mozzie repeated, freezing. "You met Ellen Parker?"

Max frowned slightly, trying to remember. "Don't know about Parker, but she took care of Danny- Neal, I mean. She was real broke up when he ran off. Why? Do you know her?"

Mozzie hesitated, taking off his glasses and buffing the lenses on his shirt. "Ellen Parker was murdered a few days ago in New York."

Max's breath caught and he sank down onto a stool. "Oh... Poor Neal. I only met her twice, but she seemed like a great woman. Give him my condolences."

"Will do." For a moment, the two men sat in silence. Then Mozzie spoke again.

"Do you think he'd be proud of Neal?"

"Who?" Max asked, not immediately following. He caught Mozzie's meaningful glance towards the framed sketch. "Oh, Cal? Hard to say. Sure, the kid's one of the best, but still... You know, the day he died, that very day, he told me that he hoped Danny didn't ever get into the game. Honest to god, that's what he said."

Mozzie snorted. "No one could have kept Neal on the straight and narrow if he didn't want to be there. And why would he? There's so much he can do without those bureaucratic restrictions." But there was a faint uncertainty in his tone and the lines of his face.

"You don't sound sure about that," Max observed.

Mozzie looked offended and opened his mouth to object, but at the last moment changed it to a sigh. "I would have been once. But we tried that before, and it didn't work out. Now... Neal may have abandoned the unspoken criminal creed, but I have to admit, he has found his own little... niche. Who am I to interfere with that? Now he has an option besides the Big Score or the Big House."

"Let's just hope he can leave something behind besides a smile," Max agreed, his gaze drawn slightly towards Cal's portrait.

"Like what-" Mozzie's question was interrupted as the pool hall's door was thrown open and a smaller-than-usual shape barreled in.

"Daddy!"

An exuberant, blond-curled cannonball ducked behind the bar and threw itself at Max.

The old man laughed and hugged the girl. "Hey, baby. How was school?"

The blond head detached itself from him, hopping up to sit on the bar. "It was _soooo_ boring," the girl complained, pouting comically. "They were teaching us how to make change. Mister Andy taught me that when I was six, _and_ he showed me how to tell when the money was real. I don't see why I have to go to school when I learn so much more here."

"Because I said so," Max replied sternly, while Mozzie watched with a slight smile. "Now, you run on home, okay? Your mother is waiting, I'm sure."

The girl made a face but obediently dropped off the counter and ducked out the door, pausing only when her bright pink backpack got caught in the door.

Max looked after her with a beaming smile. "My daughter," he explained to Mozzie. "Me and my wife got started a bit late, but she's a good girl. Well, as good as she can be when she hangs out with this bunch of felons."

Mozzie smiled too. "How old is she?"

"Nine," Max answered. "And she's already sick of third grade. Ah, well."

Mozzie chuckled softly, imagining Neal bouncing in at the same age. "What's her name?"

He was surprised when Max flushed and hesitated. "Danielle. Danny. Her mother insisted on it," he said defensively. "I tried to tell her there was already a Danny, and it might not be the best omen, but it was her mother's name and she insisted."

To his own surprise, Mozzie started laughing so hard that tears came out of his eyes. "It looks like he already has left a legacy behind," he managed. "I'm sure he won't stop grinning like an idiot for days."

Max chuckled. "Yes, well, let's just hope that she doesn't follow in his footsteps too closely. Not that I don't think Neal's a good guy, but I don't ever want her getting into the business."

"Fair enough, fair enough," Mozzie said amicably. "Once you're in the game, it's next to impossible to get out."

"That's what I've always said," Max agreed. "It's a shame that it's too late for Neal."

The short conman smiled slightly, leaning across the bar. His voice was so low that Max, only inches away, could barely hear him.

"There's always another option," he murmured. "If you can't get out of the game, _you can always play for the other side.__"_

* * *

The moment Mozzie walked back in the door, Neal knew that _he_ knew.

"Hey, Moz," he said cheerfully, avoiding his friend's disappointed gaze. "Good trip?"

Mozzie scowled, his glasses glaring with reflected candlelight. "You could have told me. Considering I was already going almost a thousand miles out of my way to get your precious dust-magnet of a box."

Neal ignored the first part, concentrating on the second. "So you have it?"

"Yes, I have it," Mozzie said in exasperation, passing Neal the box before heading over to liberate some wine.

Neal held the box carefully, as if afraid it might suddenly crumble to dust. Carefully, he slid off the top, baring its contents. Mozzie peered curiously over one shoulder.

"_That's_ what you had me retrieve?" he asked, surprised and a bit annoyed. "A bunch of your old sketches?"

"Among other things," Neal said, lifting out a small leather bundle that served as a backing for a shining piece of metal. "Besides, I never actually said that it was an illegal stash."

"What is that?" Mozzie demanded, pointing to the object in Neal's hand. "Is that a badge?"

"It's Ellen's," Neal admitted. "The funeral is coming up soon, so I thought-" His throat closed up suddenly and he hung his head. Mozzie suddenly understood.

"'Old conmen never die; Their smiles just fade away'," he quoted. "It really makes you wonder- What about old lawmen?"

His friend gave a strangled chuckle. "Oh, they don't die either. Their handcuffs just don't work anymore."

Mozzie nodded appreciatively. "Oh, but so I went to that pool hall that you conveniently didn't tell me about, and you'll never guess what I saw..."

* * *

Neal wondered occasionally why Ellen's death didn't affect him as viscerally as Kate's had.

Maybe it was because, while he'd seen her bloody from the bullet wound, being taken away by paramedics, he hadn't been there when it happened like he had when Kate's plane exploded. Maybe it was because he'd gotten to hear her last words in person.

But the more Neal thought about it, the more he realized it came down to regret. With Kate, he hadn't been able to stop focusing on his mistakes, his failures. Lying to her in the first place, and how it felt when he'd had to tell her. Trying to con her into helping him with the music box and losing her. Finding her right as he was arrested. Stupidly breaking out of jail to find her rather than waiting three more months for his sentence to end. Giving up the music box, trusting Fowler and his boss to honor the agreement.

Hesitating when Peter showed up, when she was blown to pieces.

It had haunted him for a long time, poisoning his good memories.

But with Ellen, it was the opposite. He didn't think about the day he ran away. He didn't think about her bleeding out on a gurney and telling him to trust Sam.

He thought about her ruffling his hair when he was little, or holding him up so he could see the paintings at the art gallery. He remembered fondly when she would scold him for breaking the rules, and how her face would twitch as she tried to hide a smile when he tried to talk his way out of it.

He saw her sitting tiredly on a bar stool, talking to Cal, and the man's oddly nervous expression as she walked away. He felt her rubbing his back as he cried for his dead friend.

He recalled the time when she'd lost her keys and had to pick the lock to get in, inadvertantly giving him his first lesson in the fine art of breaking and entering.

He remembered her sharp intake of breath when she heard his voice for the first time in years.

And he heard her talking to Mozzie, fondly reliving his childhood with a faraway expression that told Neal that she'd missed him just as much as he'd missed her.

He felt guilty for contacting her, for placing her in danger, but he could practically see the stern, no-nonsense look she would have given him.

_Oh please_, she'd have said._ I made my own choices._

Neal had to admit that he was glad he'd finally seen her again, even if it was for such a short time.

And so, he laid the boquet on her casket and shed a few tears for the woman he loved like a mother. And then he looked up and called out to the shadow that he was sure was Sam, because she'd wanted him to find the truth.

And, unlike when Kate died, he went to work and he smiled, genuinely, because the good memories outweighed the regrets.

But he did swear that he'd find her killer. And when he did, he would go for justice, not revenge, because Ellen wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

* * *

**And there we are. Need I say it? I will anyways.**

**THE END- for now.**

**If you want a continuation, then check out USA on Tuesday nights at 8 o'clock (adjust time accordingly for time zones).**


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